Welcome to Rome 1 (2004)
[Click the image above to see the view with binoculars.]
If anything, the national press corps was probably too deferential to the White House and to the administration in regard to the most important decision facing the nation during my years in Washington, the choice over whether to go to war in Iraq. The collapse of the administration's rationales for war, which became apparent months after our invasion, should have never come as such a surprise. The public should have been made much more aware, before the fact, of the uncertainties, doubts, and caveats that underlay the intelligence about the regime of Saddam Hussein. The administration did little to convey those nuances to the people, the press should have picked up the slack but largely failed to do so because their focus was elsewhere--on covering the march to war, instead of the necessity of war.
--Scott McClellan, What Happened: Inside the Bush White House and Washington's Culture of Deception
Truth never comes into the world but like a bastard, to the ignominy of him that brought her birth.
--John Milton
~/~
Image made with Fractal ViZion. Post-processed until it lied its way into a book contract.
Tags: fractal, fractal art, digital art, poetry, political poetry, illustrated poetry, rome, welcome to rome, view with binoculars, publishing toadies, cruelanimal, blog with a view
1 comment:
In Memory of Ivan Alexandrovich Goncharov
Oblamov refused to leave his bed. Flood waters covered all cracks so he no longer knew where it would be safe to put his feet. Thousands of faithful serfs had been driven from their hovels and were camped out across his land waiting for word on what to do. Oblamov refused to take the bait. He knew what day it was, where the stars were in the heavens, and so he pulled the covers over his head and gnawed on a raw carrot. Leaning over the samovar, he studied cautiously how to flick one small gnat out of his tea. He was rich enough and fat enough to waste one whole day in this enterprise. The pounding of carpenters on his roof, the singing of women in the kitchen, the squealing of their children would not move him. Not even a message from the heresiarch of his Orthodox church troubled his watery eyes. Resolute not to rise from his bed, he knew he would turn from his door any begging Judas whom this evil day honored.
[Disposable Prose Friday 13, 2008]
Dr. Mike
Post a Comment