Back at The Critic, our concerned doctor recounts a not uncommon episode of the bureaucratic British police doing its best to avoid having to investigate a crime.
We see in it the simultaneous manufacture and avoidance of work, the belief that procedure trumps result, and the development of organisations composed of an apparatchik and a nomenklatura class, in an updated version of the Circumlocution Office whose mission statement was How not to do it.
Over at City Journal, our royalist doctor pours scorn on a misguided proposal—likely conceived by some anti-monarchist Jacobin intellectuals—to encourage Britons to swear allegiance to the king while watching the coronation ceremony.
The main argument against the monarchy in Britain is easy to understand and expressible in a soundbite: it is undemocratic. Such an abstract argument is more important to the intelligentsia than any pragmatic consideration—for example, that the monarchy in practice is much less likely, and has much less power, to oppress you than your local, democratically elected town council, to say nothing of central government, which is incomparably more bullying than the monarchy has been for centuries.
In this week’s Takimag, the dubious doctor confronts gaudy kitsch at an “antiques center” and is appalled by what he sees there.
On another note, God save the King.
As soon as the peasants moved to the city, however, where life was more exciting and in some ways easier for them, they seemed immediately to lose their sense of form and color. Kitsch became the cynosure of their eyes. And it is not only in Africa that I have noticed this strange effect.
In the May issue of New English Review, the curious doctor sits on his terrace in the French countryside and considers why he rarely sees dead birds, never smells the odor of dead rats in Paris, and why the sound of owls in the night comforts him.
I think I could easily become a nature mystic. The sound of owls at night—the call and its answer—soothes me, not being a mouse or a small mammal. When I hear the cuckoo I experience a sense of joy, though I know it is a bad bird and its vocal repertoire is less even than that of a rap singer.
In his weekly Takimag column, the good doctor laments the dilution of academic standards in the humanities after reading some particularly nonsensical verbiage from the keynote speaker of a conference of art historians in London.
Pretentious teachers teach pretension to new generations, who must then be found occupation to flatter their pretensions. Thus, the process is self-reinforcing and self-reproducing like a colony of bacteria in a petri dish. The only thing that will halt the expansion is the irruption of reality, for among other things, the pretension is always reality-denying.
In his Law & Liberty column, Theodore Dalrymple blasts the unfortunate, but all too predictable, spread of the woke mind virus to a formerly renowned book publisher.
I have long thought that the Soviet Union won the Cold War in the cultural and intellectual sphere, and the very form of language that the chief executive of PRH employs, to say nothing of its content, makes that assessment plausible. The worst is that the new totalitarianism is not imposed by a dictatorship, it is freely chosen. Such totalitarianism is the opportunity and salvation of ambitious mediocrities.
Back at The Oldie, our incredulous doctor calls into question an unscientific study concerning the positive health effects of art on the elderly enjoying their forced COVID lockdowns in Montreal.
Do we really need the BMJ to inform us that art improves life? Imagine a world in which there was no art and no possibility of there being any art: would anyone not understand that life in such a world would be deeply impoverished?
In this week’s Takimag column, Dr. Dalrymple goes after the omnipresent modern mental health industry as well as the climate alarmists who maliciously inflict unnecessary anxiety on children and teenagers. For proof, please see Greta Thurnberg. QED.
If I believed in conspiracies, I would say that those who indoctrinate children about the imminent end of the world because of climate change are in the pay of the monstrous regiment of mental health workers, who require a timid, shallow, anxiety-ridden population in order to guarantee their future income by promising to restore it to that mirage-like entity, mental health.
Over at The Epoch Times, our favorite doctor takes issue with President Biden’s bogus attachment to his Irish roots, which is done mainly for shallow and self-serving political purposes.
It was his character, not his origins, that counted, and this ought to be so in all elections. Those candidates who sentimentally recall their origins, near or distant, are appealing to the most primitive of allegiances and the worst of criteria for making a choice between rivals for office. No doubt this is to an extent inevitable, because it appeals to human nature rather than to human reason, but it should nevertheless count as a mark against them. We sometimes have to resist what comes most naturally to us.