Saturday, October 29, 2005
Scooter, we hardly knew ya.
Put yourself in poor I. Lewis Libby's shoes...
... The nymphs are departed.
And their friends, the loitering heirs of City directors;
Departed, have left no addresses.
By the waters of Leman
I sat down and wept ...
Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.
But at my back in a cold blast I hear
The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.
A rat crept softly through the vegetation
Dragging its slimy belly on the bank
While I was fishing in the dull canal
On a winter evening round behind the gashouse
Musing upon the king my brother's wreck
And on the king my father's death before him.
~~ T.S. Eliot
~~ The Waste Land
Okay, that passage is not strictly fair to Libby, because he's probably never "mused" in his life.
If he ever did, though, he'd have to contemplate the end of his career in ignomy, and someday soon, his ersthwile comrades denying that they ever broke bread with him.
I don't know if it's Fitzgerald's plan, but it's certainly my hope that during his arranged marriage with the Justice System, he'll learn to muse upon loitering heirs, chuckles, slimy rats, the dull canals into which he cast his bait, Kings of Wreck and of Death....
In a way, our future hinges on this man's musings.
Lord help us.