In this reality the author self-censors and conforms freely for fear of being seen and scrutinised by the now realised Big Brother state and state-dominated society. This is a democracy that behaves itself by conforming to the will of the state – to the will of power – en masse as a result of accepting as true the “promises of later success” and with vague hopes of the benefits and vague fears of the powers of the masters.
This is exactly the problem with this level of national hypocrisy; on the one hand there is the need to flatter the stars, even when those stars are the epitome of everything this neoliberal state both fears and loathes – giants like Naomi Klein and Noam Chomsky, then on the other there is this cringe-worthy attempt to silence and stifle the replication of their big ideas.
Looking in the mirror no longer shows me an image of how I think I look. Now it asks me questions about the future and reminds me that I am no longer the fairest in the land. My young maths students crack the odd joke about me developing bald spot and I find myself envying their youth and stupidity.
That’s fighting talk, that is. Growing up where I did I’ve heard this language a lot. It’s the battle cry of housing estate vigilante justice, “You just tell me where he lives, and I’ll march right round there and see what he has to say for himself. By God, he’ll listen to what I have to say.”
Back in Bellfield Primary School I attempted to read The Colour of Magic. It was a little beyond me then, and perhaps it still is. Terry Pratchett, who succumbed to his embuggerance (what he called his Alzheimer's) yesterday, was a satirist of formidable skill. His publisher reminded us in his own comments on the old … Continue reading Time is a Drug. Too Much of it Kills You.