A Reflection: A Whimper

Maybe it's the weather, but it occurred to me that although we would much prefer that he had make his exit forthwith, there is something poetic about fifo's lingering death. Look at the pathetic figure in the previous post. This is how his world ends. In the greatest of possible punishments, he who would have changed the world is an irrelevancy in a Nike track suit surrounded by the ruins resultant from his life's work. On some level, despite the protestations of sycophants, he realizes it. Else, why the dispatches from the deathbed, if not in vain gesture to assert himself beyond the confines of his sickroom, his home for over a year? I don't believe he has written them all, in whole or in part. But there are touches of fifo in the last few.

Many have written about his latest missive, the one about how Bush is going to starve the world and start World War III, so I will forgo dissecting it. But note, it is brief. How galling it must be to the man who would impose eight hours speeches on his subjects. If he actually wrote it, it is the sound of steam escaping; if he did not, he has become so superfluous that his minders are slowly turning back the throttle. After nearly a half century of acting on the world stage, he is reduced to acting for the world from stage left. He has come full circle, again the young Cuban boy whose vainglorious, inflated estimation of himself prompted him to write to the President of the United States for money and advise him on the procurement of metals.

I could almost feel sorry for the guy, if it were not for the untold millions who have suffered at his hands, for the lives ruined, the lives lost. Yes, I could almost feel sorry for him, almost, but not quite.