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Well, last night was not nearly as bad as the night before. I went to bed early, wanting to take advantage of the fact that the cats are generally quiet for the first part of the night, and so I enjoyed a good couple of hours of sleep right off the bat. When I got up, at around one, I put in a little reading session and showed the cats a lot of love, and when Sammy laid down to doze, I took another shot at sleep myself. Sammy got a little rambunctious at around five in the morning, but this proved to be an easy brush fire to put out. In sum, it was a good night’s sleep. It took a little more navigation to achieve it, but sleep was had.
Mar. 4th, 2014
Christopher Hitchens and Swastikas
Mar. 4th, 2014 12:54 pmHitchens relates a little anecdote of the time he was walking down a Beirut thoroughfare and came across a sign with a swastika, which was for a fascist political party, the Syrian Social Nationalist Party.
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Well, call me old-fashioned if you will, but I have always taken the view that swastika symbols exist for one purpose only—to be defaced. Telling my two companions to hold on for a second, I flourish my trusty felt-tip and begin to write some offensive words on the offending poster. I say “begin” because I have barely gotten to the letter k in a well-known transitive verb when I am grabbed by my shirt collar by a venomous little thug, his face glittering with hysterical malice. With his other hand, he is speed-dialing for backup on his cell phone. As always with episodes of violence, things seem to slow down and quicken up at the same time: the eruption of mayhem in broad daylight happening with the speed of lightning yet somehow held in freeze-frame. It becomes evident, as the backup arrives, that this gang wants to take me away.
I am as determined as I can be that I am not going to be stuffed into the trunk of some car and borne off to a private dungeon (as has happened to friends of mine in Beirut in the past). With my two staunch comrades I approach a policeman whose indifference seems well-nigh perfect. We hail a cab and start to get in, but one of our assailants gets in also, and the driver seems to know intimidation only too well when he sees it. We retreat to a stretch of sidewalk outside a Costa café, and suddenly I am sprawled on the ground, having been hit from behind, and someone is putting the leather into my legs and flanks. At this point the crowd in the café begins to shout at the hoodlums, which unnerves them long enough for us to stop another cab and pull away. My shirt is spattered with blood, but I’m in no pain yet: the nastiest moment is just ahead of me. As the taxi accelerates, a face looms at the open window and a fist crashes through and connects with my cheekbone. The blow isn’t so hard, but the contorted, glaring, fanatical face is a horror show, a vision from hell. It’s like looking down a wobbling gun barrel, or into the eyes of a torturer. I can see it still.
-- Christopher Hitchens, "The Swastika and the Cedar" at Vanity Fair (May 2009)
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Well, call me old-fashioned if you will, but I have always taken the view that swastika symbols exist for one purpose only—to be defaced. Telling my two companions to hold on for a second, I flourish my trusty felt-tip and begin to write some offensive words on the offending poster. I say “begin” because I have barely gotten to the letter k in a well-known transitive verb when I am grabbed by my shirt collar by a venomous little thug, his face glittering with hysterical malice. With his other hand, he is speed-dialing for backup on his cell phone. As always with episodes of violence, things seem to slow down and quicken up at the same time: the eruption of mayhem in broad daylight happening with the speed of lightning yet somehow held in freeze-frame. It becomes evident, as the backup arrives, that this gang wants to take me away.
I am as determined as I can be that I am not going to be stuffed into the trunk of some car and borne off to a private dungeon (as has happened to friends of mine in Beirut in the past). With my two staunch comrades I approach a policeman whose indifference seems well-nigh perfect. We hail a cab and start to get in, but one of our assailants gets in also, and the driver seems to know intimidation only too well when he sees it. We retreat to a stretch of sidewalk outside a Costa café, and suddenly I am sprawled on the ground, having been hit from behind, and someone is putting the leather into my legs and flanks. At this point the crowd in the café begins to shout at the hoodlums, which unnerves them long enough for us to stop another cab and pull away. My shirt is spattered with blood, but I’m in no pain yet: the nastiest moment is just ahead of me. As the taxi accelerates, a face looms at the open window and a fist crashes through and connects with my cheekbone. The blow isn’t so hard, but the contorted, glaring, fanatical face is a horror show, a vision from hell. It’s like looking down a wobbling gun barrel, or into the eyes of a torturer. I can see it still.
-- Christopher Hitchens, "The Swastika and the Cedar" at Vanity Fair (May 2009)
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In all these years of Hallway Dialogues, Dr. G. was never in any of them, not one. This only came to my mind now because I just had one in which he was among the seated bunch observing one of my speeches of The World According to Me. Very cold-eyed was he. The sight of him actually gave me a fright, in real life. I am tempted to think that this must have some kind of psychological significance, but I cannot even begin to take a first step to an answer or interpretation, and I do not suppose it really matters, since I am sure it has no social significance. It is just more pointless stuff in my head.
Pop is wearing his cowboy hat again and dressed all in black. I guess he is feeling pretty good. That’s great. I only wish he could be less absurd, but his health and our reasonably comfortable lifestyle are far more important. If such posturing picks up his spirits, so be it.
