School holidays continue to fog my brain. Methinks I have a touch of the writers’ block.
There’s been a lot of stuff about 1968 around, seeing as apparently many journalists laboriously counted their fingers and toes twice and realised that 1968 was exactly 40 years ago. By general acclaim, this weekend’s column on th elegacy of the ’60s by Greg Sheridan (aka The Talking Cardigan (h/t Helen)) takes the gong for most vapid and incoherent. (Weekend Australian, Review, back page)
It is not overstating things to say there was a kind of madness abroad in the culture in those days, not a whimsical eccentricity but a wilful, self- indulgent, nihilistic and destructive madness.
Much that is wrong with our culture today — especially the hatred of the Western tradition among many intellectuals and the self- obsessive, critical sterility of much academic theory — comes directly from that time.
Yawn, yawn. Someone can’t let go of the 60s, and it’s not the leftists.
The best homage to 1968 I’ve seen so far is a video of Brigitte Bardot singing Serge Gainsbourg’s sci-fi love-song “Contact”. Indescribable, really. Go look.
Oh, and the cat approves of our new dining table.