Some incredible mental gymnastics and moral cowardice on display in this essay. A couple choice bits:
Turns out, I could not give up my relationship with New York City for the future of the planet. I’d just about managed to stop buying plastic bottles (except when very thirsty) and was trying to fly less. But never to see New York again? What pitiful ethical creatures we are (I am)! Falling at the first hurdle!
Yes, this is the point at which I stake my rhetorical flag in that fantastical, linguistical, conceptual, unreal place—built with words—where rapes are minimized as needs be, and the definition of genocide quibbled over, where the killing of babies is denied, and the precision of drones glorified, where histories are reconsidered or rewritten or analogized or simply ignored, and “Jew” and “colonialist” are synonymous, and “Palestinian” and “terrorist” are synonymous, and language is your accomplice and alibi in all of it.
At least she's truthful about it being an unreal place.
The facts are clear. The reality is clear. It remains clear even if you don’t want it to be, you vile, lying, genocide-sympathizing, morally bankrupt fuck. There is no need to spend paragraphs bloviating about how everything is subjective when you can just say you don’t care about genocide.
And how is this shit published? This fucking “article” wouldn’t pass a middle school creative writing class.
It's kind of nice when people that are up their own asses identify themselves by their pretentious, unclear writing style.
Please add a CW for violence and SA.
I’d just about managed to stop buying plastic bottles (except when very thirsty)
This has to be a bit holy shit.
and was trying to fly less
this bit too, which is just code for 'i still flew anyway, but yknow i felt kinda bad about it'
I think there are people who just don't feel self-embarrassment and I envy them so fucking much.
I'd rather ____________ than ever read anything posted in the new yorker
