The Rewrite: Camille Paglia
By Randolph Brickey - Nov 19th, 2008 at 12:13 pm
(Friend of the blog Randolph Brickey has offered to rewrite Camille Paglia’s latest column, boiling it down to its essential Pagliatude. It’s recommended that you read the source material before proceeding. Pushback may make The Rewrite a regular feature, so if you have any suggestions of pundits who should be rewritten, leave them in the comments. )
One thing I’ve noticed recently is that the election has ended. My readers will recall that at the now-ancient commencement of the primary season, I predicted (ever the nation’s Cassandra, it seems) that this season would last until the beginning of November. And so it has, and here I am, looking forward–but to what, no one can say.
Obama mesmerized our willing nation like a showman messiah, a Brer Rabbit whose very skin begged against election, reverse psychologically. I look forward to watching Michelle Obama as First Lady. I am hard-pressed to recall an assertive intellectual ever threatening the natural domesticity of the post. Truly, the Washington narrative has dissolved like cream into the cinnamon macchiato of the Obama family’s post-racial, post-feminist hyper-marriage.
I know nothing about Barack Obama. The record is scanty on his political philosophy and proposals or biographical background. I conclude, like Heisenberg, that his triumph was random. Obama reminds me of early French impressionism. With his blurs of sunlight and shadow–Barack Obama is not wholly unlike a water lily. I must be the first to notice his languid, almost musical gait. I contradict the starry-eyed liberals on this count–Barack Obama does not walk on water, he floats. He is truly Protean.
I regret my initial, though warranted, dismissal of the Ayers flap. I have since “TiVoed” (I have a “TiVo”) the relevant history, a documentary on the subject, titled something I cannot recall. It was captivating. Unfortunately, the film I “Tivoed” vacillated in that incomprehensible nether between condemnation and advocacy so popular with liberals. But the information it told me nonetheless pierced my brains.
I quickly lost interest in Ayers himself. But his wife, Bernadine Dohrn, was another matter. She had fire, verve, and native virtue. Her leonine gaze shot through my “TiVo” and pierced me sublimely. I was enraptured by her life, so perfectly Freudian. From my “Tivo” I beheld the Dionysian tumult of a confused young revolutionary, smoothed and chiseled into perfect Apollonian brilliance. Her surrender to authorities–undaunted and beautiful, she was captured but untamed. To the everlasting Jungian tune she danced a genius tarantella, in truly Luciferian steps until blessedly reconciled to society. How such a wonder could be so torn apart by whatever the unpleasantness of the time (the 1960s and 1970s, I believe) I do not know.
Now, Obama knows her husband, that Ayers man. Perhaps this is important, even crucial, but I shall never know. Despite the weight of experience and cynical expectation, my Amazonian Italian blood still seethes at the ineptitude of our liberal media. Apparently, the news wizards in the media lack “TiVos” and my intellectual curiosity. They could never be bothered to give me whatever information may exist about Ayers. Well, to those wizards I should like to quote the venerable ent, Treebeard, in saying, “A wizard should know better!”
Sarah Palin reminds me of Dohrn, as well as other strong and lovely women through history, such as Dr. Michaela Quinn, a truly amazing frontier medicine woman whose career I followed through a long-running CBS documentary I can prepare in advance with my “TiVo.” One can but hope the irrational lefties have got over their orgy of bloodlust which drove their response to Sarah Palin. The apotheosis of the travesty, the Katie Couric interview, will certainly live on in infamy. As a Hellenophile, I remain outraged at the betrayal of genuine truth and substance, properties I see reflected in Sarah’s luminous, bespectacled eyes. Sarah Palin is truly both the lady and the tiger.
As a professor, I know native brilliance when I see it. The Tigress Governor outshines the fires of the Library of Alexandria. She is a warrior like me, clad for the sort of creative destruction found in the mythos of the dusky, sensual Hindi peoples. If you stand very close to her, whether in person or by holding a daguerreotype very near to the eye, she dominates the vision. Second-wave so-called feminists, take a long, sweaty look at Sarah Palin. She is the future of feminism and she drives a motorcycle–while pregnant.
Big deal should she fails to speak “proper” English. Sarah Palin speaks staccato, like a jumping jive be-boppity slam. She talks like jazz music. I can understand the fear that must grip the Democrats at the union of ragtime and small town populism–where would they be without the black vote? I have heard “intellectuals” criticize her speech as a “word salad” “full of disjointed run-on sentences” which “don’t mean anything” and “evade questions.” Here I thought the East Coast set enjoyed a good, leafy salad. Sarah Palin’s speech is a potluck potato salad, home-cooked by a confident chef. It is filling, hearty and full of language. It is a jazzy potato salad.
Democrats who doubted her credentials so loudly should note that Sarah Palin has more experience as a governor than Senators John Edwards, John Kerry, Hillary Clinton, Joseph Biden, Tracy (T-Mac) McGrady, and Michael Dukakis combined. Rumors circulate that Sarah may wish to join the U.S. Senate–whatever for? What could possibly interest her in the stuffy old Senate, with its dry tomes of policy and procedure and futile capitulations to the baser elements of democracy? Palin was not born to merely legislate. She was born to rule.
In conclusion, Obama won the election, William Ayer’s wife is magnificent, Palin is endlessly impressive, I have a “TiVo,” and the liberal media are spineless know-nothing wretches, especially the vicious inveterate snake, Katie Couric. And, as always, I am Camille Paglia. Camille Paglia.
This week’s Pagliac Society mystery question is: What is Camille Paglia’s favorite color? Note that it is certainly not blue. Do you know my favorite color? If so, please submit your response in a self-addressed stamped envelope, including your argumentative basis. The first correct response will win one (1) autographed Camille Paglia Opinion Monograph on a topic of my choosing, embossed on handsome gold leaf bond paper with a certificate of rectitude.
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