Faithful readers may be nonplussed to learn that I am now verging on political optimism. An event as close in clarifying effect to a Damascene bolt of lightning as is able to penetrate the regimental philistinism of my current surroundings alit on me last week, as silently as a bat. It happened unhoped, and, as miracles do, as (political) despair beckoned, as I read the latest installment of the nasty turkey shoot of New York Times editors and columnists, in which they picked off the promenade of Republican presidential hopefuls like giggling snipers.
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