There’s been a couple of times recently that I’ve waded into the political debate. Each time has left me feeling a little bit diminished. Sure there are issues that are important, and there is nothing wrong with giving voice to ones opinion. But the manner in which it’s done ends up leaving me with a taste in my mouth.
After the momentary glow of satisfaction of having scored a point in the endless debate has faded there’s nothing left. Normally the completion of something is accompanied by a feeling of accomplishment. But in these cases even that is absent.
Righteousness is a balm to many a bruised ego. It seems, myself included, that most political analysis is an attempt to trumpet ones own horn at the expense of another. None of us are able to pass up a dig at the opponent when the opportunity presents itself. The path to self validation lies through the diminishing of others.
If we were to judge our opinions based on those type of arguments we would be forced to admit that our beliefs lack the vitality to withstand debate. It’s one thing to argue against a position, but to cast aspersions on the person holding that view reflects a lack of faith in one’s own espousal. Do we so doubt ourselves that we to deflate others so as to appear worthy?
As a person and a writer I have opinions and views that I want to express. They form part of the basis for my inspiration and desire to write. But they were not the only reasons that I set out to write. When I forget my aesthetic sensibilities for the sake of argument, or when I ignore my heart’s desire for pleasure, I feel like I have betrayed something.
“Every artists strictly illimitable country is himself, and the artist who has played that country false has committed suicide”... e. e. cummings.
George Orwell once said about James Joyce that as an author he doesn’t consider himself above politics, rather they are beneath him. It’s a fine distinction but an important one. Instead of Joyce believing himself superior and not deigning to dirty his hands by writing political work, politics as a topic or a subject for his pen was not worthy or appropriate. His writing had transcended to another level.
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