Note to Americans

   

   In many ways it is shock-

   ingly shameful, that one

   privileged observer might

   finally portray the palp-

   able upheaval with which

   we all quiescently have

   lived, whether with com-

   plaint or exultation. To

   be 'roused by some anon-

   ymous prophet to confess

   the necessities of res-

   ponsibility, is unusual.

   What is the measure of

   consent in the governed?

But let's not lose our sense of humor

I, for one, have never been less than

delighted whenever the American Pres-

ident dismisses one of his more appal-

ling depredations of speech, as mere-

ly sarcastic. Who can object to even

the most abject desperation to deny

his own intentions, when they are so

immaculately exposed? Not for a mo-

ment, could anyone suggest that such

self-exculpation should deprive one

of a narcissistic claim of exemption  

for cheeky blondfanny, as opposed to

being seen for the worst ass around.

All this quivering, getting to you?

I was thinking, it might just be

timely for the Speaker to accept

one of those speaking engagements

which are the bane of a San Fran-

ciscan's existence, to mollify

the unseemly vibrations coursing

through her Party from the unend-

ing teases of the President. He

plays their strings of righteous

moral compulsion as the gift they

are to himself, from his spoiling

Office of infinite prerogatives;

and there is cause to soothe this

quivering with a little demonstra-

tion of sang froid that's seen it

all. At least she, of all obser-

vers, will understand how sumptu-

ously it suits the President, to

be chided on arms concessions to

someone unlikely to employ them.

A head fake, contrary to inter-

est, is a bauble to polish as

fondly as Yorick's skull, in the

pageant of histrionic vengeance.

So much eloquence, so little time

I've been interested in The Aeneid again lately, so I've been less attracted to the prospect of achieving moral satisfaction, offered by people who advocate the impeachment of the American President, when the commitments of translators of that poem fur-nish so much of that fleeting peace by their example. The rendering of that work into English is one of the great struggles the mind can undertake, and we have seen how the ordeal yields an appreciation of an impossibility revealed even in the original. Inevitably, to witness this dilemma's exposure is to undergo the seeming urgency of experiencing its consequence, a trust in the limits of the intellect against impassioned certitude.

Human beings appear to have no choice but to strive for beautiful, orderly explanations of the ugly things we do. These explanations may also represent a basic drive - and in one way a more painful one. We have chances to get land, livelihood, and security for the next generation, pretty much in the forms we imagined or even better, though the cost will be high. We cannot match in reality our vision of what we need to create from our minds. Virgil couldn't, and I certainly couldn't in my efforts to translate his glorious poem.

Anything like a zeal for an impeachment verges on a vain matching of this awe-somely fateful need to create, with reality. Who sees its consequence?

James McNeill Whistler

The Ocean Wave

1883-84

  Whistler in Watercolor

  On exhibition at the Freer

    through November 3

Virgil

The Aeneid

Sarah Ruden

  translator

  fragment from her

  essay of introduction

Yale University Press, 2008©