"A grinding sense of dislike"
by digby
ICYWW just what in the heck is wrong with this country, Peggy Noonan is here to tell you you in no uncertain terms:
The constant mischief of the progressive left is hurting the nation's morale. There are few areas of national life left in which they are not busy, and few in which they're not making it worse. There are always more regulations, fees and fiats, always more cultural pressure and insistence...
People feel beset because they are. All these things are pieces of a larger, bullying ineptitude. And people know, they are aware.
Conservatives sometimes feel exhausted from trying to fight back on a million fronts. A leftist might say: "Yes, that's the plan."
But the left too is damaged. They look hollowed out and incoherent. Their victories, removed of meaning, are only the triumphs of small aggressions. They win the day but not the era. The result is not progress but more national division, more of a grinding sense of dislike. At first it will be aimed at the progressive left, but in time it will likely be aimed at America itself, or rather America as It Is Now. When the progressive left wins, they will win, year by year, less of a country.
Replace the word left with right and liberals with conservatives and see how it sounds.
Yeah. I agree.
BTW: I think it's important to share one of Jesse Taylor's seminal Noonan satires from time to time. So much has disappeared into the ether, but this one survives just for this moment:
The Tears of Democracy
She cries because she's free.
Friday, July 25, 2003 12:01 a.m. EST
We live in times untraveled by any who came before us, treading lightly over the settled dust of past conflicts as we kick up the dust of future fights, fighting an enemy the likes of which have never been seen before – stereotypically evil Muslims. This is a time for reflection, and a time for action. Most of all, it is a time for weeping.
On September 11th, I wept. That made me a real American, along with all of the other Manhattanites who shared my pain. In June of this year, I wept again as I saw my former fellow Americans lining up to get books signed by New York’s junior Senator, Hillary Clinton. Had they forgotten what we shared, betrayed that bond that I had with them on that terrible day when we all shared in my pain? I wept for them, and more importantly, for me.
There is a debate in America over whether or not we were led into war truthfully; for that, I weep. We are fighting evil, and this is no time to show weakness in its face through the screaming and carping of partisan politics. For a while, I did not weep as we fought bravely in Iraq; instead, I cheered loudly in my echoing apartment, prompting my neighbors to call the super and have me quieted with the threat of having my lease terminated. As a result, I wept.
At some point last year, I was weeping, on my then three-a-week schedule. September 11th made it impossible for happiness to ever be a part of the true vernacular of Americanness again, and so we are still weeping. Everywhere I go, I see tears. At the candy store, the clerk, a delightful Hispanic boy named Greg told me that they hadn’t received that day’s shipment of my favorite caramel peanut clusters. I wept, because this beauty of this choice stood in stark contrast to the repressive regimes that our brave President fights against. How many Arabs will not have peanut clusters, of the chocolate or caramel varieties, no matter how many tears I shed? And so, I weep. Chocolate tastes salty in the sunshine.
One day, we will teach the young, the infirm, and the mildly disinterested the story of this time. A place where everything changed, where the fight against terrorism was built upon a sea of barely contained tears, where we could rely on manly men to man it up when necessary; failing that, we had Jonah Goldberg. Within each of us was awoken the core of our being, and now we are free to feel the spirit of America. The weepy, borderline nonfunctional spirit of America.
Weeping. Wept. Weeps. Weep-Pop-A-Loo-Bop, Ba-Lop-Bam-Boom. We live in a sad and a hopeful time. Everywhere I go, there are children around me, laughing. Then, they start crying alongside me. Mainly because I am already crying, but also because they are sad. They feel the weight of the future world on their shoulders, the acrid dust of history clinging to their sweaty feet. They know, when I lure them over to a park bench with ice cream and start reading the organizational manifesto of People for a New American Century to them, that something bad is in the air – and so they cry. They weep, like me. Like Americans. And we weep together.
When I am asked by our brave police officers and firefighters to let go of those children, I weep, as well. Perhaps it’s the sadness of a world full of dangers and only a brave Texan man between us and them. Perhaps it’s the tear gas filtering in through my stately apartment, seeping in the cracks as I cry, tearily, to those children to always have hope, to never stand down in the face of fear. They may be clawing at the door of my apartment, but September 11th claws at the door of our national soul…and its apartment. Which is rent-controlled.
Who would have thought two years ago that my tears would have become so much? My tear ducts are cauterized now, by my spirit and my faith remain unencumbered by the stunting practices of modern medicine. I weep for my tears. They are America.
Ms. Noonan is a contributing editor of The Wall Street Journal. Her most recent book, "Three Pennies, A Thimble, And A Parking Ticket," is published by Viking Penguin. You can buy it from the OpinionJournal bookstore.