I’m not talking about the sense of satisfaction that we can experience immediately upon completion of our task, but rather what comes next, and next, and next I’m speaking about disappointment. This is because in politics, as in everything, we fulfill ourselves only upon our own ruins.Īndrew: Not to be too tautological, but can we go from the political to the personal here? Because this idea that we fulfill ourselves at our own peril is so at odds with what the culture is constantly telling us that I’m guessing it’s probably not just an idea but a truth, an insight! I have only to look at what it can feel like to finish-successfully-something I really care about. In short it’s entertaining, if nothing else, but it does feel like the end of the world is coming, which we all secretly hope for, as Murakami says somewhere.ĮMC: Though we can endlessly debate the destiny of revolutions, political or otherwise, a single feature is common to them all, a single certainty: the disappointment they generate in all who have believed in them with some fervor.jĪndrew: I believe he’s calling us believers, Clancy.ĮMC: The tragic aspect of the political universe resides in that hidden force which leads every movement to deny itself, to betray its original inspiration, and to corrupt itself as it confirms itself, as it advances. I’m anxious, enthusiastic, amused and terrified by turns. A large, off-white, dirty poodle wearing a yellow bandanna barked loudly from the very back of the SUV while we spoke.Ĭlancy: Are you as disappointed as we are, Emil, in the current political situation here? You don’t seem very perturbed….
The SUV was running and warm it smelled of car leather and sour milk. We looked again, more carefully sitting next to the child was Cioran, in a red raincoat he was in fact feeding the baby with a bottle he waved for us to climb into the front seats (the doors were open). We looked around to see who was responsible for the child. Then we saw a child sitting alone in a car seat in a parked SUV. He had told us that he’d be returning from walking his dog at ten ‘o clock-“our daily walk”-and that we should catch him outside his building. He was supposed to meet us on the street.
We turned this way and that, looking for Cioran. Andrew had flown in from Los Angeles the day before and Clancy had arrived from Kansas City just that morning. It was good to be in each other’s company.
Cars honked on the busy street and, because it was freezing and the light had that crystalline quality of bright sunshine on a winter’s day, we felt optimistic. It was a cold winter day and our breath made clouds in the air. We met outside an inauspicious two-story yellow brick apartment building on Minnesota Avenue, in Washington, D.C., not more than a few miles from The White House.
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