The woman's job is to find a great man (not good, by the way), suck his cock, wash his socks and write his eulogy. That's it, forget all the rest of the shit you think you're doing with careers and "your own life" and whatnot, it's an exercise in derpitudinous ridicule. There isn't a life outside of life. This is life.
He was strong and self-confident, that’s the trait most people knew him by. He most often stood alone, upright, however strong the wind was. But standing up against the wind has a price. Noone comes unharmed from so many years of struggle and stubbornness.
If he could have lowered his standards somewhat, adjusted himself a tiny bit, acknowledged that humans are fallible and the flesh weak, he could (with the risk of sounding pompous) have been one of those who changed the world. Some of it. Maybe.
Did it matter to him, having no degree, when he was so talented and competent? Yes, I think it was a sore point, though he’d never have admitted to it. But he was always trying to show what he knew and could, and that prove that he was intelligent (as if anyone was in doubt). He wasn’t really showing off, I think he was compensating for his lack of academic insignia.
When I heard of his death it was like a blow to my stomach. Vi had’nt been in touch for a long time, he had rejected me, defined as one of his enemies. (Hatred is the emergency exit in the house of love).
This is an atrociously bad eulogy, for a few very good reasons :
- The point of an eulogy is to illustrate the greatness of the man and the ultimate worthlessness of the world. This piece does the exact opposite : it argues for the ultimate importance of the world and for the ultimate unimportance of the man. With or without the excuse that the author is from Norway and thus an imbecile, this still may never stand. It is shameful and immoral to write such crud. Don't. I don't care how tempting it is to give the pretense of enshrining your own mediocrity into universality, just don't. Mediocrity is not nor could ever be universal, by its very definition. That's what mediocrity is : anything which could never be universal even if everyone did it.
- The point of an eulogy is to use the surviving woman's worthless body to pay homage to the very valuable, now extinct soul of the man. Thus the best eulogy is suicide on the grave. The second best eulogy is something exactly opposite to the sad exercise before us, trying to use the dead man's body as a sort of puppet in some sort of a boring, staid puppet show dedicated to convincing any that may listen and against all evidence of how right, interesting, important and unfairly neglected the woman actually is. She is not, and the retarded banshees she's gathered there - wailing about how "they understand" and discussing their various methods to enforce mediocrity and avoid relevance - constitute a stain humanity is well ashamed and deeply regretful of.
- The point of an eulogy is to give the account of the man that the man would have given himself. This sad excuse for an eulogy offers no guarantee whatsoever, as to integrity, validity, relevance, representativity or anything else of any import. Pretty much the only thing it guarantees is that the dead man would be enraged to know about it. That's not how you do an eulogy.
For comparison, an excellent eulogy : LAWRENCE AUSTER: JANUARY 26, 1949 - MARCH 29, 2013 (cached). Some highlights :
But the blogging career that stands out on the Internet and in the history of American letters as a tour de force of philosophical and cultural insight is over. Mr. Auster entered a state of sedated and sometimes pained sleep the next day, after a night of agony. He spoke no more than a few words during the next two days and died peacefully this morning after about ten hours of unusually quiet and mostly undisturbed rest.
Only extreme incapacitation could have brought that career to a close. For many of us, it was a marvel, a form of essential daily food. No man gave more to his readers. No writer responded more energetically to the people who took in his words and either approved or rejected them. No thinker, except perhaps Plato, jousted more ably with his students or left such an elegant and finished record of philosophical conflict and resolution. He was philosopher, journalist, guru and cultural psychoanalyst in one. And no writer on culture and politics had sounder judgment about the world around us, or more brilliant observations.
Sadly, as of today, View from the Right, except for an entry about his funeral and possibly more on his death, will become inactive. He wanted it that way. VFR could not continue beyond Mr. Auster’s death because it is the creation of an utterly unique personality and mind.
The site will, however, remain online permanently, as long as the Internet exists. There are also plans to collect his writings, both those found here and those unpublished, in book form. At the time of his final siege of illness, he was working hard to make that happen.
There is much more to be said — about the man and the ideas. But today is a day for grief, as well as for gratitude. His almost unimaginable suffering is ended.
Soon we can feel wonder too. We can sit back and marvel at what we had — and still have. The loss of this great fighter invites us to love even more the ideas, principles and heritage that Lawrence Auster loved. It behooves us to love America, even a deceased America, as much as he did; to love Western civilization; to love the written word and unfettered intellectual discourse. His combativeness sprang in part from an internal wellspring of affection.
This is an exceptionally well written eulogy, and the credit goes to one who humbly, but quite intelligently, identifies herself as The Thinking Housewife.
The man eulogized, however, is a boob. Quite specifically :
My question is: when will men (and women) start saying publicly that they don’t like this? To put it bluntly, how could any man feel happy being with a woman, making love to a woman, fondling a woman’s breasts, when he knows that the breasts he’s fondling have been artificially enlarged by surgically inserted sacks of silicone? How could a man relate to that and not be turned off by it?
How about anemia ? To put it bluntly, how could any man feel happy being with a woman, fucking her, playing with her titties when he knows that unless she takes iron supplements she'd be in bed all day exhausted by breathing ?
Or you know, how about manicures. How about washing ? How can you split the vulva knowing that there, but for the grace of soap, goes cheese ? What sort of multicolored idiocy is this! How about reading and writing ? Clothing ? What artifice is to be permitted women if any is off limits ? Suddenly not such a "tour de force of philosophical and cultural insight", leaving alone the putative if sorely absent "Americaniii letters".
I could quote further, and humiliate the pompously hollow dead into the dirt. I can't be bothered. Instead, I would wish to know why the fuck is it that great men get shitty eulogies and so many two bit artificially inflated boobs out there get such excellent ones ?
And I get my wishes. I know why it is. Great men don't get the eulogies they deserve and artificially inflated boobs get eulogies they don't deserve because women have turned mediocre these days. Because women aren't raped nearly enough, aren't beaten nearly enough, don't go hungry and don't cry nearly enough, they've forgotten to appreciate greatness and instead hum along like objects, between a "battery low warning" and a "you've got new messages" notification.
It's no way to live, not for any woman, and a "career" is no substitute, a sex tape is no substitute, nothing can really ever substitute. Grow up, stop clinging to your prepubescent sarafans, go find a great man and give him a great eulogy already.———
- Though I hear Slim's done a wonderful job on Bogart's in the desert, and to my eyes that counts exactly as much as her acting career. Because that is her acting career. [↩]
- If you don't know why Naggum was a great man, ask Stan. Tell him I sent you, he'll give you the real low down. [↩]
- There do exist American letters. They're written in Spanish, very good Spanish, by South American authors. The US is perhaps a major contender in Puerto Rican letters, or in Jamaican letters, or in Polynesian letters. As far as America is concerned, it never saw the inside of a qualifying match since the 1920s. [↩]