…that I’m going to start hooking into the wavelength that James Poulos seems locked on. It reminds me a tad of things I heard about Philip K. Dick’s later years:
An indie-porn crony of Billy Corgan’s who quotes Godard? That right there is a hipster’s worst nightmare, I assure you. But how many bourgeois Americans would you sacrifice to the clumsy exigencies of sexual irresponsbility if it meant a culture — Christian, pagan, atheist, or Martian — in which the Sasha Greys of the world were unreservedly recognized as the enemy? And the enemy they are: scourging, scourged premonitions of an unrecognizably hellacious hell on earth as democratized as ‘celebrity’ is today. Marginal, nasty little outcasts one minute and destroyers of worlds the next, you could almost violate our last respectable taboo and call them our Hitlers. But instead of the Fuhrer’s twelve years, these fearless leaders get fifteen minutes.
As for style, rather a bit like cutting butter with the flat side of the butter knife, while little cans of Sterno heat different regions of the brain.
Poulos, in this age of “Change,” is one of the changes wrought at First Things after the old man died. In his glorious reward, is Neuhaus feeling likewise rewarded by those he left behind?
No one loves a good intellectual clown show more than I, but it’s not a regular Saturday night thing for me, if you know what I mean.
Perhaps I’ve become too methodical and have too much of a craving for a coherent point of view, as opposed to one that feels like six people are talking to me at once, fast. But even that might be easier to deal with, if each of the six actually knew what he was talking about.