Just yesterday I intercepted a letter from God the Father (there are no secrets on Internet these days). Here it is, in part but without its original red letters:
Then there are the agnostics and the atheists. Apparently walls mean nothing to them, especially once the walls have been torn down, and they would have flown over them anyway. They have always wanted to eat Augustine’s pears or Moses’ figs or Mohammed’s bananas or the Hindus’ rose-apples or the immortal Chinese peaches or whatever they thought they would find in there because, well, again like Eve, they just wanted to eat them. That means Poe, Twain, Charlie Chaplin, Dylan Thomas and Nabokov to name but five so far. Let me add that beautiful and ineffectual angel Shelley. For all of them the falling towers were about Shelley's Ozymandias, about Empire’s Decline and Fall and they were happy among the ruins. But their careers involved exile, depression, alcohol and drug addiction, drowning, sensational court cases, psychiatric hospitals, family members who died young in the fire-bombings of WWII or the Holocaust...
Even though I cannot agree with them, I have a soft spot for them because at least they have a sense of mischief! They can believe in everything and anything if they want to, even me. Their lives are about secrets and risk – passion and desire lived in its cracks and on the wing. Their lives (and their art) are a mockery of living life defined by invisible walls and they have never taken redemption too seriously.
Living life in fear only produces more regulations, and regulations repress desire and produce banality, and in the end that produces, inevitably, rebellion and more risk and more secrets and the closets burst open again…
Genesis is a sexual fable of the child becoming an adult and the adult losing the sense of what it means to be a child. That is the real Fall… Exiles and artists, travelers and tramps have understood this because they have known all the props kicked away.
Things did not work out so well for Poe and Dylan Thomas, but Twain did all right. Chaplin went back to Europe in 1952 to Vevey, Switzerland when the U.S. revoked his visa. The nymphs are departed… By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept. Nabokov went to live in Montreux in 1960, just along the lake from Chaplin. They would die within five months of each other in 1977, gods returning home after visiting the earth, the devil’s playground, Eden, America.
I wanted to respond to God but emails from His Augustness don’t have that “respond to sender” button. What I wanted to ask is why, against the backdrop of global war and pestilence, the Holocaust and Hiroshima, we become so much more worked up about incest, consensual or otherwise, and of the verbal abuse of women. Why, just a short time ago, here on liberal, progressive TH, all the talk for days and days centered on the horror of a man calling a woman a slut. Nothing, really, about Sgt. Bales’s cold blooded murders of women, under-age or no, presumably without their consent, or of that other fellow in Denmark, Anders Breivik, who killed 77 innocents of various ages and sex, again most likely without their consent. If Brevik or Bales had called Christiane Amanpour a “Ms. Self-satisfied, Creepy, Daughter of a Cunt” (hypocisy? a blog to come) good folks around here would still be blogging about it. And if those scum had with great fanfare and publicity committed incest? God help us (sorry, I forgot for a minute that He isn’t clickable) the blogging would probably never end.
You can read all of God's letter here: