<< He's not appreciated.
He's not appreciated.
He's not appreciated. >>
Flattery and envy will get him nowhere, but for a man who believes that Marxist politics consist first and foremost of creating a Web shrine to his own collected works, this is a remarkably revealing mirror. He dismisses with a taunt, an insult, a diversion, a threat, or a Trotskyist fable those who seeks to argue and document a political point of view by blending analysis and experience. Might it be that serious discussion is more than Woody's/Louis's snide bons mots can manage?
Oh, I get it now. When Louis recites episodes from his sorry personal history on the frayed fringe of the lunatic left, he means it as a confession, not a boast. Or, if Tariq Ali is nearby, as a toast.
From the tables at Rienzi to the Lubiyanka cell,
From the halls of AYS and YSL,
Sing the Trotskyites assembled,
With The Prophet Armed on high,
And the sorrow of their music casts a spell.
We're poor little lambs . . .
I now realize that I once knew Louis, but his name was Max Shachtman, and he's been dead for many years. When my kids were little, they used to crack each other up miming him. Sorry, that was supposed to introduce Scene Two, when snap-brimmed LP was praying for the Second Coming of Farrell Dobbs.
For the Broadway version of The Second as Farce, stand aside, Marat-Sade.
We want our rights and we don't care how;
We want a Web-olution NOW!