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Atlas Shrugged II: Who Is John Galt?

with 11 comments

Atlas Shrugged pgs 2-5

*sob*

I don’t wanna do it, don’t make me! Please mommy, don’t let the bad lady hurt me anymore. I won’t use anymore wire hangers…

*sigh* So, without any further sobbing, wailing, attempts to give myself testicular cancer with a glow in the dark watch, or trying to change my name to Juan and move to Tijuana…Ladies and Gents: Atlas Shrugged!

“Who is John Galt?”

That’s how she starts the book off. Well, in case you haven’t heard, John Galt is the perfected man. He won’t show up for about another 700 pages though, so don’t hold your breath. In Rand’s world, the phrase “Who is John Galt?”is pervasive. It is an expression of despair and depression, that the world is fundamentally screwed and there is nothing that can be done about it.

Of course, this is also a sign of the incredible low level of curiosity shown by anyone besides Our Craggy Heroes ™. No one bothers to do any research, investigation, zip. At the end, it will turn out that “John Galt” has been on the payroll of Taggart Transcontinental all along. And no one noticed. No one looked at his pay stub, none of the people he worked with, none of the people who paid him ever commented on it. These people aren’t just uncurious, they’re inhuman. Think of your reaction if you met someone named Thomas Cruise, or even Henry Ford. Their name, their face would stick with you more clearly, even though they only shared a name with someone famous. Humans search for patterns, and the idea that no one would comment, that no one would notice this guy has exactly the same name as the guy in that saying is literally impossible. Humans don’t work like that.

So the book opens from the perspective of Eddie Willers. And here’s the thing. I like Eddie. Eddie is a nice guy. Eddie acts like a human being. He isn’t some inhumanly dramatic Nordic God of Industry, he isn’t some whiny schmuck. He’s just a guy, caught up in events beyond his ken. Actually, Eddie might be the most important character in the book. See, Eddie is one of those people that keeps things running. The secret that Rand missed, even though it runs through the book like a thread, is that the John Galt’s and Dagny Taggart’s of the world don’t actually run things. Dagny spends about half the book traveling, in hiding, working on another railroad, and generally doing things that are not “Running Taggart Transcontinental.” Who runs it while she’s gone? Eddie. When she goes missing in Colorado and plays “hide the gold bar” with Galt, who runs things? Eddie. When she and Rearden travel around the US hunting down motors, who runs the office? Eddie.

One of the turning points of this book will be the eventual, inevitable downfall of Taggert Transcontinental. Dagny spends pages raging against this like the good lil’ ubermensch she is. Eddie doesn’t. Eddie just keeps things running.

I like Eddie.

When we meet Eddie, however, he is having a little crisis. A bum has asked him for a dime.

“Who is John Galt?”
The light was ebbing, and Eddie Willers could not distinguish the bum’s face …yellow glints caught his eyes, and the eyes looked straight at Eddie Willers, mocking and still-as if the question had been addressed to the causeless uneasiness within him.
“Why did you say that?” asked Eddie Willers, his voice tense.

“Why does it bother you?” he asked.
“It doesn’t,” snapped Eddie Willers.
He reached hastily into his pocket. The bum had stopped him and asked for a dime, then had gone on talking, as if to kill that moment and postpone the problem of the next. Pleas for dimes were so frequent in the streets these days that it was not necessary to listen to explanations, and he had no desire to hear the details of this bum’s particular despair.
“Go get your cup of coffee,” he said, handing the dime to the shadow that had no face. ‘Thank you, sir.’ said the voice, without interest, and the face leaned forward for a moment.”

Yep. This is the most likable character in the book. Look dude, you’re going to your high-powered, well paying job. Give the guy a fucking dime and spare us the drama, ok? You can afford it. Hell, he even thanks you. I mean you gave the guy a dime, what do you want, a boot licking? (Also, literary note. WE KNOW THE GUYS FUCKING NAME, AYN. YOU DON’T NEED TO KEEP REPEATING IT LIKE WE’RE UNUSUALLY SLOW KINDERGARTENERS.)

Again, this illustrates a fundamental part of Libertarian thinking. It’s not just the idea of charity or generosity that bothers them. It’s the idea that people aren’t grateful enough. Never mind that this is a polite, respectful bum, he is “without interest.” Because you know, when someone gives me a free dime, I am overjoyed. This poor bum doesn’t realize the simple joy of a dime. I mean, a dime! What ecstatic joy is in the word! Stupid bums not appreciating the value of a good dime.
But Eddie is feeling a “causeless unease”

“It’s the twilight, he thought; I hate the twilight.”

(Say it with me everyone: SYMBOLISM!)

“He turned a corner. In the narrow space between the dark silhouettes of two buildings, as in the crack of a door, he saw the page of a gigantic calendar suspended in the sky.”

Worst. Acid trip. EVER.

“It was the calendar that the mayor of New York had erected last year on the top of a building, so that citizens might tell the day of the month as they told the hours of the day, by glancing up at a public tower. A white rectangle hung over the city, imparting the date to the men in the streets below. In the rusty light of this evening’s sunset, the rectangle said: September 2.”

That’s a really, really, really stupid idea. I mean, really stupid. A giant calendar? Who the hell wants a giant calendar? I mean if it had some kittens playing with string, or a bunch of classic ‘vettes, yeah, I could see that. But just a plain old calendar? It’s like the worst present ever from your grandmother. Except that your grandmother is the Mayor of New York. And she just blew a few million of your tax dollars on a friggin’ sky calendar.

“Eddie Willers looked away. He had never liked the sight of that calendar. It disturbed him, in a manner he could not explain or define. The feeling seemed to blend with his sense of uneasiness; it had the same quality.”

Really? It doesn’t make you angry, Eddie Willers? You don’t think it’s a horrible waste of public money, Eddie Willers? It just makes you sad, Eddie Willers? You’re such a puss, Eddie Willers.

You know, I get it. I really get why their world is falling apart. Because none of the “movers and shakers” ever get angry. Well, they do, but it’s always a sort of helpless and confused rage. “What can we do?” they cry. “We’re only powerful industrialists! We have no ability to affect the course of anything!” They never start a petition or pay off a senator or even write a letter. They just sit around, and then get all sad and outraged, but in a quiet and noble way, like an Indian watching you litter.

And I find myself understanding old people now. The sort of anger that Dagny and Hank and John feel isn’t the anger of the dynamic and youthful men and woman of action they are. It is the sort of helpless, gnawing rage of someone grown too old, in a world they do not understand. And so they shake their fists and curse the youth and vote for whoever reminds them of Ronnie, because they don’t understand and this frightens them. It is understandable, and heartbreaking in the old. It is unforgiveable in the young.

And this is the same attitude we see among the superrich today. Witness the reactions of the car companies any time a new requirement is added, be it seatbelts, or mileage requirements, or safety glass. Instead of either A) doing it or B) listing reasons why it can’t be done, they simply wibble and whine like two year olds who just lost snack time.*

“But but but, we can’t possibly do that! Profit margins! Engineering! LAYOFFS!” You halfway expect them to bring their mothers to the Congressional hearings. And then, if they’re lucky, they get congressmen (*cough* Barton *cough*) apologizing to them for the heinous crime of expecting them not make a horrible mess of the entire world. Because they’re suffering!

So Eddie wanders down the street. He sees a stall full of fresh produce, and a well driven bus, and feels better. 🙂 But then he sees the calendar again and feels sad. 😦 And then he sees stuff for sale and he’s all 🙂 again. And then he thinks about a tree and is all :(. And then he gets to work and is all 🙂

Brutha needs some lithium, know what I’m sayin’?

So blah, blah, blah, childhood memories, the world is changing, I can feel it in the water, I can smell it in the air.

Two pages later, he finally gets to work. And meets his boss, the head of the company, one of the most powerful, wealthiest industrialists in the world. James Taggart. The very name is synonymous with trains, with energy, with motion. Oh, what a God this man must be!

“He had a small, petulant mouth, and thin hair clinging to a bald forehead. His posture had a limp, decentralized sloppiness, as if in defiance of his tall, slender body, a body with an elegance of line intended for the confident poise of an aristocrat, but transformed into the gawkiness of a lout. The flesh of his face was pale and soft. His eyes were pale and veiled, with a glance that moved slowly, never quite stopping, gliding off and past things in eternal resentment of their existence. He looked obstinate and drained. He was thirty-nine years old.
He lifted his head with irritation, at the sound of the opening door.
“Don’t bother me, don’t bother me, don’t bother me,” said James Taggart.”

Awww, shit.

Now, let us be clear here. Ayn Rand is not saying that all Liberals are ugly.

*flips through rest of book*

No, I tell a lie. She thinks all Liberals are ugly. Presumably her books of philosophy contains, (besides the “Liberals are ugly” argument) the “Liberals are smelly” argument, the “Liberals are poopyheads” argument, and most devastating of all the “So’s your old man” argument.

Again, I refer you to the statement included in the author biography.
“I trust that no one will tell me that men such as I write about don’t exist. That this book has been written-and published-is my proof that they do.”
Ayn Rand feels that her ability to write characters like Galt means that they somehow must exist. So presumably, in her mind, the fact that she writes liberals like James Taggart means that they too must exist.

And again, the sheer arrogance in that statement is so breathtaking, so very far beyond the ken of normal hubris, that it requires a full minute or two of thinking about before you realize what she has done. She has claimed that the fact that she has written something means that it is so.

“And Rand said, let there be Galt. And there was Galt.
And Rand saw the Galt, that it was good: and Rand divided the Galt from the liberals…”

Next time: Deals are made! Rail is bought! Woolen undershirts are sought! And introducing: DAGNY TAAAAAAAGART!

**EDITORS NOTE**

While I did not at all intend the particular edited line to be read that way, part of being a writer is being able to take criticism, and change what you did wrong. And yes, I’m still struggling with my male privilege. (I’m 21, cut me some slack.) And in this case…well, frankly, what I’ve got there now is a better metaphor that what was there before. Cheap shock value is one of those things I’m supposed to be rising above. And as always, thanks to Carolyn for calling me on these screwups. Tous les jours à tous points de vue je vais de mieux en mieux and all that.

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Written by newscum

July 14, 2010 at 3:23 am

Stupid Things Libertarians Say, Part I

with 14 comments

Well, I’ve already got one series going here (and there will be a new installment of that ASAP) so I might as well start another one. We’ll call this one “Stupid things Libertarians say.” Now let me make one thing crystal clear. Not all Libertarians are bad and stupid people. Only most of them.
That’s a joke, son.
To be serious, I have empathy for libertarians. Perhaps it’s the effect of too many John Wayne movies on my febrile mind, perhaps it’s some rogue masculine gene that wants to pack up a covered wagon and a pistol and head out for Oregon. But I feel the same instinctive pull in the idea of making it or breaking it on my own. And I think this is a deeply human instinct.
At root, we are pack animals, but we have, thanks to that big ol’ wrinkly brain of ours, a deeply rooted sense of the individual. It is possible to create a human whose will is reflexively conditioned to see the group first and the individual second. It’s not easy though, just ask Jim Jones. Or the Marines. For the most part we’re a cantankerous bunch of apes with nothing on our minds but getting more bananas and more poon than the guy next door. (And we painted the Sistine Chapel and wrote Moby Dick too, so don’t go all high school nihilist on me, Jack.)
The fundamental reason that we have governments is that we can’t do it on our own, so we create an overreaching organization to act impartially. In theory, no man is beyond the law, though man made it. Kings and peasants alike are bound by the law, because we accept that to not be bound by our law is to be bound by the jungles.
And then you’ve got this schmuck. You’ve probably encountered them before, the people so into capitalism you have a sneaking suspicion they jerk off to the Wall Street Journal. And they say things like this:
“I’m sure the bleeding hearts are going to hate me for saying this, but the only way to really create a “green economy” is for government to get out of the way.”
Direct quote folks.
And I know that it’s like wrestling like a pig, but what the hell. Let’s shred this quote-unquote idea, shall we.
First of all, do you know why there is an EPA? Because in 1969 the Cuyahoga River caught fire. Yes, you read that correctly. The RIVER was so polluted it burned. Several times, actually, but 1969 was the worst. Around the same time, the smog deaths in LA lead to the creation of the Clean Air Act. Let me make this clear. That wasn’t “Got lung cancer after twenty years” smog deaths. That was “This smog is so bad people just died” smog deaths.
Now, these two events neatly illustrate two separate and stupid misconceptions that lead to the statement above. The Cuyahoga River fires were a direct result of industrial polluters being absolutely incapable or unwilling to regulate themselves. A simple free market analysis shows why. I run company X. You run company Y. We’re both steel mills. You are a responsible mill owner, and have your toxic chemicals hauled away and disposed of, using a (now) basic, standard “Cradle to Grave” tracking system. I run a pipe to the river. Gee, I wonder which is cheaper?
The second, the LA smog deaths, illustrates the other problem. I have the right, in our capitalistic society, to buy a car. You have the right to buy a car. EVERYBODY has the right to buy a car, and, with the proper certification, drive. Grand. The issue that we run into is that when five million people within the same couple hundred square miles decide to buy and drive a car, it starts killing people. There is NO WAY for this problem to self regulate, because everyone is 1/5,000,000,000th of the problem. What’s more, at the time, there WAS NO WAY TO SELF REGULATE. There wasn’t an SUV/hybrid continuum of fuel efficiency. There were 8mpg cars and 7mpg cars, and that was about it. So the only way the problem got alleviated at all was by the government stepping in, including at the source of the problem, the car companies. Blah blah blah, catalytic converters, mileage standards, you get the picture.
HAH! the libertarian shouts. That is one situation, you cannot extrapolate from the specific to the general. Or, at least, they would say that if they had any idea how extrapolation works. Seeing as they are Libertarians, they probably can’t. So, to continue our trip down memory lane, look at the food and drug situation in the country before the FDA.
Again, let me illustrate my point with a simple example. You run 1890 Drug Company X and I run 1890 Drug Company Y. Lil’ Upton Sinclair hasn’t yet started to think about what he eats for breakfast. Now, you are a responsible drug company, ad you decide to test these new compounds using (now) standard LD50 tests, wide spectrum animal testing (with a special focus on using whichever animal is most similar to human beings in the particular organ system that the drug affects) and double-blind human testing.
I notice that when I give my patients this magical stuff called “heroin,” they have no more pain.

Again, which one of us is cashing in, which one of us is still trying to figure out what the LD50 for laudanum in rats is when we have to close our doors?
Or what about the rifle companies that knowingly sold sub-standard rifles to the US Army in the Civil War because there was no such thing as standardization or quality control inspectors? Or the ones that sold bad tinned beef to the US Army in the Spanish-American war and WWI? Or the factory workers pre-1920 and pre-union?
The simple fact is that a business exists for one reason- to make money. To make as much money as possible, as quickly as possible. And there is nothing wrong with that. However, it turns out that when you use sub-standard products, and stop caring about quality, you cut your bottom line and make more money. Which means that the purely free market ends up being a race to the bottom.
The job of the government is to set up an artificial bottom. This is the lowest quality X you can use, this is the oldest Y you can sell, it has to be this clean, this sanitized, etc. etc. etc. Many companies have made a killing, and will continue to make a killing, advertising their higher quality products-Tyson Chicken’s new ad campaign springs to mind. But it means that you, the consumer, can safely buy and use any product on the market, knowing that it meets certain minimum requirements. The job of a business is to make money. The job of a government is to protect its citizens. By farming quality control out to the businesses themselves, you make quality control a cost. When you have a cost, you have a cost that can be cut.
All of which is to say that there is currently no money in making a green economy, because the bottom is still cheap plastic and cheap oil. Until the government creates an artificial bottom, you will see no progress in this area because there is no. damn. PROFIT. Companies that are seriously trying to go green (and I mean seriously, not like Pampers and their 50% recycled thin plastic wrapping) are finding themselves the equivalent of the responsible business owners in my examples above, spending money to do good while their competitors happily profit from poisoning the earth. The good companies get eliminated-either through losing all their money, or because they give up in disgust. Long story short: you want a green economy? Make it profitable. And the only way to do that is to make pollution unprofitable. And the only way to do THAT is through government regulations.
And of course, the Libertarian will come back and point out that businesses that make defective products go out of business, or are at least punished. Toyota! they will cry, small bubbles forming at the corner of their mouths. BP!
And yeah, sure. If anyone knows that you’re selling a defective product. But in 1910, “Milk” was often chalk and water. You really, really, REALLY don’t want to know about sausage. Or about the amount of fecal matter in beef. Or the people who occasionally fell into the rendering pits for lard and got sold along with it. (OSHA? Government agency.)
But now, thanks to government laws passed by government officials who work for the government, there are watchdog groups. Like the FDA, the EPA, OSHA, CDC…I could go on.
But another example. You want to know HOW recalls happen? They are, it’s true, sometimes at the behest of the company, and good for them. But let’s say Jimmy Dean accidentally sent out tainted sausage. And no one noticed. Well, Jimmy Dean ships everywhere, so you might have the same batch infecting people in Missouri, Texas, Maine, and Florida. Fortunately, there is a group called the CDC that monitors little things like E. Coli, salmonella, botulism, etc. And they send government doctors and government scientists all over the country with government plane tickets and staying in government hotel rooms. And their job is to talk to people who suddenly get E. Coli. And they discover that the people in Missouri, Texas, Maine, and Florida have all eaten Jimmy Dean Breakfast Sausage, and they have them a recall.
And in our enlightened age, you can’t just sell Doctor Trustworthy’s Liver Cure and Goodforwhatailsya. (which, back in the good old free market days, was usually grain alcohol, food coloring, and occasionally laudanum) There is another group called the FDA that does a shit ton of testing so you know a new drug is safe.
See, here is the problem. Even with the internet, most people don’t have the time or ability to run down these patterns. The most notable case of amateur work in that field was probably Love Canal. In that case, a small, isolated area, with highly noticeable physiological effects caused by chemical contamination, in a fairly closely knit community. The doctors didn’t notice it, no one figured it out for years, until a few private people took it upon themselves to get it sorted. It took them years to put together the evidence right in front of them.
So I could pull out the usual old saws about how are you gonna pay for the roads without a government, or do national defense without a government, but there’s my question instead. And the next time a Libertarian, or Republican, starts blathering on about Big Government or Progressivist Socialist Nazi Kenyan Death Camp Government, ask them this: what is the free market gonna do about the Jimmy Dean Sausage?

Written by newscum

July 2, 2010 at 4:08 am

Dreams of the Empire Part 1

with 3 comments

75 is the twilight of the Gods, and from the vantage point of my tender years, an almost unthinkable expanse of time. Now, young and healthy, a fall down the stairs is something I can jump up and shake off. Yeah boys, I’m ok. Toss me another beer so I don’t feel the bruises. Life is beautiful when you’re young, ain’t it?
But for old John Walton, a fall down the stairs could be the end of it all. Maybe not the final shuffle off this mortal coil, but near enough. It could break his hip, leaving him writhing in pain and deeper in debt than you can imagine. Or maybe you can. I hope to God you can’t though. It could be that final little push that sends him into the home. Not one of those nice retirement centers in Florida where you play shuffleboard and grab-ass with that cute septuagenarian in 213. The other kind, the kind not bad enough to rate a Barbra Walters special, but bad enough in its own way. The kind that smell like shit and Pine-Sol, where when your kids come to visit, all you can do is beg them please. Please get me out of here. Please take me home.

Please.

And you’ll discover that this child, this child that your world turned on-still turns on- this child that once you held, this child whose “please” could bring you to your knees; will look at you and say, simply: “no.” If you are lucky, if you have perhaps earned some last smidge of good karma, there will be tears in his eyes. At least for a while. And there may even be an explanation, and a faint promise of next year. The sort of promise easily made and easily broken. The little papercut lies we tell ourselves to sleep at night. And one day they’ll get a call from a 3d shift nurse at 3AM that you are gone, telling them that you went quietly. And it may even be true, for there isn’t enough left in you to put up much of a rage at the end.

This is the world of many, many millions. Probably one or two people you know, or parents of people you know live like this. There probably is, somewhere out there, a John Walton who lives this fear, or something close. Walton is an old name. A hill-country name. They had a TV show about a family named Walton, and ol’ Sam Walton made himself richer than God selling poor white trash cheap Chinese trash. John isn’t one of those Walton’s. He’s just a tired old man, with the wide face and hands of his people,
But then again, what does this have to do with the Empire? Oh sure, John might have humped a pack in Korea, maybe even the early years of ‘Nam, if he stayed in long enough. He might have been a grunt for the Empire once upon a time. But that was long ago, if, indeed, it ever happened. More likely, John is one of that middle generation of history that emerged, phoenix-like, from the wreck of the world that was World War Deuce. Too young to be a hero at Omaha, or in the blue skies of the Pacific, and too old to head west and drop acid. Maybe, if he’d been in New York, he would’ve wound up in one of the little backstreet cafes around 1956 and heard a young buck named Jack talk about America. But he wasn’t. He was in Arkansas.
And John fixes cars. He fixes them real good, too. And he made his living underneath a million chassis, has drained enough oil to fill the Gulf of Mexico, and he can diagnose every rattle and grind with a surgeons easy grace.
He is, in a word, a damn good mechanic. And he worked for many years on fine American cars, and then he worked in his old age on fine Japanese cars. And he admitted, begrudgingly, that the Japs made some damn fine engines, because he was a craftsman, and a craftsman is honest. Men who do a certain work for many years find themselves irrevocably shaped and fashioned by that work, and those who master their work find in it some mastery of themselves. And as wood and metal and wire are honest things, to work in them for years will bend a man towards honesty, and he cannot bring himself to lie when he sees his craft done with grace and elegance.
I tell you all these things because I want you to understand John Walton. He hasn’t read anything except newspaper headlines and the Kelly Blue Book since 1985. He has never heard of Keats or Chomsky, and is vaguely aware that there was a man named William Shakespeare. If pressed, he might remember that Shakespeare wrote Hamlet, from a high school class he took when Roosevelt was in power. He does not know calculus, nor can he tread the arcane paths of history. He believes that George Washington cut down a cherry tree because he learned this as a boy and has never been corrected. He is not stupid. He may seem so to you at first glance, this tall man with the soft Ozark drawl and missing teeth, but he is not.
He is the man that fixes your car. A hundred million like him till the land that feeds you. Another ten million work on your refrigerators and keep your electricity flowing, and a million other jobs you haven’t dreamed, but without which your life would be a living hell.
And they get very little. John here worked, man and boy, from the time he was 15 to the time he was 65. And even after those 50 years of sweat and toil were done, he worked odd jobs to bring in money, and because he is not the sort of man who can simply lie idle on the couch and watch the game week in and week out.
And he loves America. He loves America as you have perhaps not loved anything in your life. His love for this country, and its empire, is simple, honest, and yes, unquestioning. He isn’t particularly fond of Toby Keith, and there is a nasty edge to much modern patriotism that confuses him, but he votes Republican because he remembers Ike, and he believes that a man who works hard and doesn’t complain can get ahead in the world. And because he’s been too busy working for sixty years to question the truth of that, he never thought to reconcile his own long, grinding near-poverty and years of labor with the truth or untruth of that belief.
But now he is old and alone, and is dying, and the world slips away a little at a time, because there is nothing to hold onto in this place but sticky off brand linoleum and shit brown walls. And in the fear of dying, he has nothing of his own to cling onto. He has not made riches of his own. His children face the same grinding life he had, he can dimly see the trail of their future, and it leads here as well. He has no hope for his own life, and so, in his fear and his dying, he clings to hope and the Empire. He believes in democracy, free speech, and the right of free men to own a gun if they so choose.
And because there is nothing left for him to hope for in his own life, or his children’s lives, because they are bought and sold by corporate men who will never swing a hammer or torque a wrench, men who will never rebuild an engine, unless it is on the weekends in their garage, he believes in a dream and he believes the soft lies that he has been told.
He believes that this country is good, because it is his country. Because he has owned a small piece of it, and because the heartless bastards at the top have told him he is a good man. And when there is nothing else, he clings to that. That he is right, and good. That his beliefs are not evil, that his prayers fly to something besides an empty sky. Because America might be an Empire, but it is his Empire.
For him, the word Empire itself is not evil. You and I have had the training and the learning to see what lies beyond the smooth veil of that word. We know the excesses of Rome, of Britain and Belgium, but this man does not. He believes because he must. Because otherwise his life will have been lived in the service of a deep and irreconcilable wrong. Because no one can believe that what they love is altogether wrong. Because the word Empire means to him industry and progress. Because he has nothing left to hope for, and hopeless men are the chosen prey of liars, and he has been lied to.
It is easy to hate. And to judge. And I will not canonize John Walton. But I cannot hate him, and I cannot hate those like him. I suppose that I feel for him a deep and lasting sorrow.
John Walton is not a saint. But John Walton, and those like him, is not a fool. He is not evil. He is simply without hope and clinging to something bigger than himself, in hopes that if his own life has been without greater meaning or success, that he has at least been a small cog in something great and beautiful.

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June 30, 2010 at 11:34 pm

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