The Spectator contained a letter to the editor from one of its own columnists (the sort of thing that makes me a faithful if not constant reader of the magazine) concerning the appearance of Boris Johnson on his BBC radio show. The subject of the show – this was before the move to 10 Downing Street – was Samuel Johnson, and the columnist, Matthew Parrish, wrote: “Boris Johnson proved a sparkling, energetic, and erudite champion of his namesake…”
There are people, at least in this country, who compare Britain's new prime minister with our PM (president manqué). But can anyone imagine Trump being described as “sparkling” or “erudite” on any subject, let alone that of a 18th Century writer?
Back in May I spent a day in Philadelphia, wandering familiar streets and taking photographs, some of which I posted on Instagram. In my old neighborhood of Queen Village I took a picture of a large mural that featured a mournful, mixed-race angel overlooking the Center City skyline. The word “Rise” appeared above his left wing. I didn’t post the photograph; I thought I’d wait until the city experienced a crisis.
That took three months.
Last night a little Central American girl appeared in my dreams, waving to friends as she was taken away by ICE.
Instead of the wind rustling the prairie grass, or seagulls squawking on the Eastern Shore, perhaps CBS Sunday Morning could leave us some week with a truly American sound: the POP POP POP of gunfire.
Watching Robert Mueller yesterday I thought how wonderful it would be to once again live in a country where people of such probity, integrity, and selflessness actually get elected president.