The Age of Solipsism
noun - the theory that only the self exists, or can be proven to exist; extreme preoccupation with one's feelings, desires, etc.; egoistic self-absorption
On any normal day -- if by "normal" you mean the apocalyptic hellscape of the present regime -- Trump would win Solipsist of the Day. But competition keeps you on your toes even better than a protruding belly and lifts in your shoes. You know who understands what it's like not to be able to go back to work? Through no fault of your own (that you're prepared to acknowledge)? Kevin Spacey. He said so in a YouTube video for a conference of German business people. I must have missed it as I tracked down all those Betty Boop cartoons. Spacey knows what it's like to queue for groceries at the food pantry and fend off a landlord who wants the rent while trying to keep the kids from going feral, doesn't he? Of course he doesn't. Nor has he spent his free time thinking about the end of a brilliant career -- read the final sentence about "tight-fitting leather pants" before applying hand sanitizer to your eyes. (Don't do either one.)
Mark Harris's review of Woody Allen's Apropos of Nothing suggests a similar level of moral obtuseness, but I haven't read the book. I have read Harris's books, though, and I trust him to be fair to Allen's -- autobiography? Apologia? It's hard to say. Allen seems to offer unenlightening accounts of his films (does it add anything to know that the lobster scene from Annie Hall was the first one shot?) interspersed with attacks on the mental condition of Mia Farrow and assessments of other actresses based entirely on their appearance. Despite widespread reporting on his alleged outrages, much of it by his son Ronan Farrow, Allen still has a career. He quickly found a publisher after Hachette bailed on this book, and he still makes a wan comedy every few years. And he is still married to a woman many people consider to be his daughter. Spacey probably thinks of Allen and Roman Polanski and considers becoming a director. Perhaps under the name Will B. Goodrich.
Trump is, of course, still the king of solipsism, but he has many rivals. Every idiot who thinks his right to get a massage, to shop without a mask, to cavort on a beach or eat in a restaurant where the servers are forbidden masks, supersedes the rights of others not to contract a still-unpredictable virus, can be said to be as cruelly oblivious and self-obsessed as his inarticulate slob of a Leader. My congratulations. You have joined an enormous, disgusting movement. Clio, Muse of History, will have to take it from here. At least she will have plenty of evidence to sift.
On any normal day -- if by "normal" you mean the apocalyptic hellscape of the present regime -- Trump would win Solipsist of the Day. But competition keeps you on your toes even better than a protruding belly and lifts in your shoes. You know who understands what it's like not to be able to go back to work? Through no fault of your own (that you're prepared to acknowledge)? Kevin Spacey. He said so in a YouTube video for a conference of German business people. I must have missed it as I tracked down all those Betty Boop cartoons. Spacey knows what it's like to queue for groceries at the food pantry and fend off a landlord who wants the rent while trying to keep the kids from going feral, doesn't he? Of course he doesn't. Nor has he spent his free time thinking about the end of a brilliant career -- read the final sentence about "tight-fitting leather pants" before applying hand sanitizer to your eyes. (Don't do either one.)
Mark Harris's review of Woody Allen's Apropos of Nothing suggests a similar level of moral obtuseness, but I haven't read the book. I have read Harris's books, though, and I trust him to be fair to Allen's -- autobiography? Apologia? It's hard to say. Allen seems to offer unenlightening accounts of his films (does it add anything to know that the lobster scene from Annie Hall was the first one shot?) interspersed with attacks on the mental condition of Mia Farrow and assessments of other actresses based entirely on their appearance. Despite widespread reporting on his alleged outrages, much of it by his son Ronan Farrow, Allen still has a career. He quickly found a publisher after Hachette bailed on this book, and he still makes a wan comedy every few years. And he is still married to a woman many people consider to be his daughter. Spacey probably thinks of Allen and Roman Polanski and considers becoming a director. Perhaps under the name Will B. Goodrich.
Trump is, of course, still the king of solipsism, but he has many rivals. Every idiot who thinks his right to get a massage, to shop without a mask, to cavort on a beach or eat in a restaurant where the servers are forbidden masks, supersedes the rights of others not to contract a still-unpredictable virus, can be said to be as cruelly oblivious and self-obsessed as his inarticulate slob of a Leader. My congratulations. You have joined an enormous, disgusting movement. Clio, Muse of History, will have to take it from here. At least she will have plenty of evidence to sift.
posted by Buttermilk Sky at 2:22 PM
1 Comments:
I sat through the Kevin Spacey speech, albeit a bit impatiently. He is adding to my firm conviction that we are about to enter a new historical epoch, which will be known to future generations as The Age of Self-Pity.
Yours crankily,
The New York Crank
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