
(LDS Media Library)
I posted an entry yesterday — see “Back of the Bus, Book of Mormon Boy!” — about the disgusting Trumpist bigot Steve Bannon and his cynically dishonest venture into anti-Mormon demagoguery. Here’s a bit more on that uplifting theme:
National Review: “The Garbage Case for Roy Moore”
National Review: “Bannon’s Ill-Conceived War on the Establishment”
CNN: “Steve Bannon’s shameful dog whistle”
The Hill: “Meghan McCain knocks Bannon: ‘Who the hell are you’ to criticize Romney?”
If you have 21.5 minutes, former Republican Congressman Joe Scarborough and others discuss Bannon’s repulsive remarks here:
“Joe: Steve Bannon shows he’s frightened of Romney running in Utah”
In related news:
The Onion: “RNC: ‘We Warned You Gay Marriage Would Be A Slippery Slope Toward Accepting Pedophilia'”
“Arizona GOP Rep. Trent Franks to resign following sexual harassment claim” (It’s perhaps worth noting that the noble and virtuous Rep. Franks was a principal opponent of the evil non-Trumpist Mormon senator Jeff Flake.)
“Utah’s Rep. Mia Love calls for Texas GOP congressman Blake Farenthold to resign”
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The great Irish poet William Butler Yeats (1865-1939) wrote his famous poem “The Second Coming” fairly late in 1919, in the immediate wake of World War One. The rise to national prominence of the loathsome Steve Bannon has reminded me, particularly, of the first stanza of this rather curious “Christmas poem”:
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?