And in despair I bowed my head:
"There is no peace on earth," I said,
"For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men."
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead, nor doth he sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail,
With peace on earth, good will to men."
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
...but "I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day" is my favorite Christmas carol. It's my favorite for these lines:
I've long suspected that most of what we call "art" in the modern era is unworthy of the term. And every now an then, you run across someone saying something you believe better than you ever could. Here's Jonah Goldberg, from his latest G-File:
Still, I don't know if architecture is the best example of the phenomenon. Modern art caters to popular tastes just as little as architecture. A great deal of performance and installation art strikes most normal people as a colossal joke or a straight-up con. And please don't tell me that my failure to appreciate three squares and a triangle or a blob of paint on a canvas is my shortcoming. If something isn't aesthetically pleasing or interesting, doesn't require skills I do not have, and makes a stupid point stupidly, I don't appreciate it as art. That doesn't make me a philistine. It makes me a non-rube.
Anyway, it seems to me that the more a relatively artistic field of endeavor caters to critics over consumers, the worse it gets. You can see this all over the place, from haute cuisine to music. Some of my best friends in college were music majors, and they would ramble on about how Philip Glass is a genius. Maybe he is. But I'll take Beethoven or the Beatles over him any day. I don't follow the literary world too closely these days, but my impression is that the same is true in the world of fiction. If you write for the critics, only the critics will read you.
Deer season ended not with a whimper, or even a bang, but by simply ending. Tag sandwiches don't taste very good, and this is the first time I've eaten one in a while. Still, in a thought familiar to Cub fans everywhere, "There's always next year!"