A long vigil (Off-topic)
If you read the rhapsodic, pained, and achingly sincere messages of love and gratitude from Lawrence Auster's highly intelligent and literate readers, you may have felt overwhelmed to the point of paralysis. I have not been able to do anything constructive today, and I fear this catatonic immobility will be with me for a while. Many who found VFR years ago were at first repelled by his intransigeant traditionalism. The first time I read him, in 2003, I thought, "Well, he's just too conservative." The second time: "He's too conservative, but he's right." Then we were like magnets, in a one-way magnetic field - VFR that drew, I who was drawn, inexorably and happily. I believe most of his readers experienced something similar. Once addicted, there was no looking back, and no need for any other source of information about the cultural and political scene in America. The power of his deceptively simple prose was in his inherent reserve, but not in politeness per se, and never in euphemistic dodges. He did not suffer fools at all, gladly or otherwise. He had a mission which was to relieve us of our reticence, our squeamishness, our guilt - white guilt, Christian guilt, patriotic guilt, all the "guilts" we have been forced to pretend we feel over the past - what? forty-five years! Has it been going on that long? In truth much longer, but as most of you know, for me 1968 was the rupture. The Democratic Party ceased to be the party of John Kennedy and became the party of Hanoi Jane, from which point it has steadily grown stronger in its decadence, like a weed fortified, not destroyed, by cyanide. From 1968 there was no one voice to oppose the social devolution - there were many, silenced, one after the other, over the years as propaganda deftly altered the nation's moral code, until that gorgeous late summer day in September 2001, when an apocalyptic event sent spasms through our bodies and souls as we witnessed a horror from another dimension. Suddenly there were armies of voices writing in a new medium called the Internet reviving us with oxygen, enlightenment and exhilaration. But in the clamor of opinions, one voice came to stand out for its relentless commitment to truth, no matter how unpleasant, and to bold positive action no matter how arduous; for its elegance and precision, its total lack of frivolity and superfluity. "Le mot juste" applies to Lawrence. If he ever used an unnecessary word, or harbored a wrong idea, he certainly made up for it at his website.
Over the past many months, since early June when the cancer recurred after an astounding two year remission, my heart would pound every time I went to VFR, in dread. Since the end of December the news has been horrific, a nightmare of medical abdication of duty. Only recently has he had some blessed relief.
Now as his great mental powers ebb away, and they prepare his most vital organ, his brain, for radiation, his readers are living through a time of surreal tension and unbearable sorrow. Why him, of all people, they wonder. That's the point. Exceptional people are here to do a job, and are called home, for the next agenda. Why did Mozart live only thirty-five years?
So I hover between the need to stay awake and the need for sleep. And we wait for darkness, as he gradually enters the Light. This can happen at any time, tomorrow, next week, next month, or... who knows?
One of his readers says:
You converted me to traditionalism. Traditionalism gave me hope and inspired me to have a large family. There are people (my younger children—future traditionalists!) who literally exist because of you!
This reader, like many others, must be saying to himself that his and his family's tomorrows belong to Lawrence.
A love song by Sinatra may seem incongruous, but I don't think Lawrence would mind.
The photo is of a Cistercian monastery, Hore Abbey, in Ireland near the Rock of Cashel. A charming remnant that has more life, more meaning, than most modern structures. Age has withered her a bit, but not destroyed her spirit. I know that Lawrence Auster enjoyed his trip to Ireland, way back when...