Why We Love Phil Cubeta

Because he writes like this:

I have an image so private, I hesitate to share it, but often when I hear someone talk to me about what they learned the prior evening on Fox News, what comes to mind is Berlin bombed flat, with a few old women moving about the rubble. That is what a propagandized population will endure, to the end, for its delusions and those of its leaders. Some will follow our leadership all the way. Others of us will dissent. How that plays out will be the existential crisis that will mark the meaning of our lives. Then the philanthropist and patriot will be one in sacrifice. Art or artfulness has never in my lifetime been more needful. Now we will relearn to read works of literature written in dark times, not as illuminating texts, but as models to imitate as best we can as we face crises no less daunting than those of a satirist, say, in Imperial Rome, or Augustan England, or as Loyal Subject of the Crown in Boston, circa 1775. We must learn to write better and read better if we are to hold the mirror up to nature, and remain free as writers, citizens, and a people. God Bless America.

God bless America.

Comments

[ahfukit]

Major dude. Long may he run.

[tom]

ainsi soit-il.

[Bruce Trachtenberg]

I imagine a rag-tag group of patriots linked arm to arm and forming a protective shield around Cheney's home on the grounds of the Naval Observatory and all chanting: "Don't tread on the fourth branch of government!"

[Countess Apraxina]

I am ask my rock climbing partner Valentino to write this little note to my kulak friend Alyosha: I am so sorry to hear of your friend Phillip's passing. I condole you. Very nice tribute on your blonk. I will write soon.

[Jon Husband]

Proud to know him .. he inspires.

[Dickor Trevinson]

Deft conveyance, Valentino. Glad you dressed for the occasion. :-)

Countess.  He is not dead, only dreaming:

Heralded by the impetuosity of the Afghan hound, the old man entered. He had read his paper; he was drowsy; and so sank down into the chintz-covered chair with the dog at his feet—the Afghan hound. His nose on his paws, his haunches drawn up, he looked a stone dog, a crusader’s dog, guarding even in the realms of death the sleep of his master. But the master was not dead; only dreaming; drowsily, seeing as in a glass, its lustre spotted, himself, a young man helmeted; and a cascade falling. But no water; and the hills, like grey stuff pleated; and in the sand a hoop of ribs; a bullock maggot-eaten in the sun; and in the shadow of the rock, savages; and in his hand a gun. The dream hand clenched; the real hand lay on the chair arm, the veins swollen but only with a brownish fluid now.

The door opened.

Get that back to her, willya Val?