Is Paul Auster crazy or just stupid?
IT was the year of years, the year of craziness, the year of fire, blood and death. I had just turned 21, and I was as crazy as everyone else.
There were half a million American soldiers in Vietnam, Martin Luther King had just been assassinated, cities were burning across America, and the world seemed headed for an apocalyptic breakdown.
Being crazy struck me as a perfectly sane response to the hand I had been dealt — the hand that all young men had been dealt in 1968. The instant I graduated from college, I would be drafted to fight in a war I despised to the depths of my being, and because I had already made up my mind to refuse to fight in that war, I knew that my future held only two options: prison or exile.
So why isn’t this fucktard still in prison or exile instead of spewing propaganda for the NY Times? Auaster is typical of the so-called “talent” at the NY Times.
Did Paul Auster really despise the war, as he claims, or did he just not want to be bothered with it? Or did he despise the war simply because it was an unwelcome interruption to his own personal dreams? Dreams which other people could sacrifice, but not Paul Auster
I had marched in demonstrations against the war, but I was not an active member of any political organization on campus. I felt sympathetic to the aims of S.D.S. (one of several radical student groups, but by no means the most radical), and yet I never attended its meetings and not once had I handed out a broadside or leaflet. I wanted to read my books, write my poems and drink with my friends at the West End bar.
Whiny little loser bastard. “Waaah, eeewww, but I want to stay here and write poetry and drink with my friends at the West End bar.” Perhaps had Auster went to Vietam his writing would have some depth to it.
Furthermore, Austere isn’t even opposed to violence:
After the outburst in the park, campus buildings were stormed, occupied and held for a week. I wound up in Mathematics Hall and stayed for the duration of the sit-in. The students of Columbia were on strike. As we calmly held our meetings indoors, the campus was roiling with belligerent shouting matches and slugfests as those for and against the strike went at one another with abandon. By the night of April 30, the Columbia administration had had enough, and the police were called in. A bloody riot ensued. Along with more than 700 other people, I was arrested — pulled by my hair to the police van by one officer as another officer stomped on my hand with his boot. But no regrets. I was proud to have done my bit for the cause. Both crazy and proud.
So fighting is ok as long as it is in support of some made up liberal bullshit cause, just so long as the cause is not America.
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