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Nouvelles du monde
 

In essence, the author has created a wor
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The Nelligan Review: Christian Fennell

Vol. 2 / Issue 1

January 04, 2024

Christian Fennell

Editor-in-chief,
The Nelligan Review

Has the World Gone Ft. Lauderdale Saturday Night Boardwalk Crazy in Our Give Me Another Painkiller—Now Please, Alienation?

... Or /

The Café Orr

She woke—but who was she? some innocence of newness, I suppose, this thought jumping into my mind at The Café Orr in Montreal while drinking with Josip Novakovich, a master of short stories; of first person; of writing about his life. Camus comes to mind: “The absurd is the essential concept and the first truth.” And this is Josip; this Josip writing. His ability to marry a sense of the improbability of life with ... ‘well, of course, it happened.’

With the release of his latest book, Vignettes, we begin to talk about the 70s, his rock ‘n’ roll years, and me, just a kid viewing them in real-time. They were the last free decade. That’s what I think, and he says, he’s not so sure about that. Another pause in our conversation, and that girl, she’s back, and it’s perfectly quiet and perfectly still where she is—a forest somewhere, the air holding a scent of some deep wanting. Some previous unknowingness. She sat up, covered in leaves, and she looked at the forest, magical in its holding of her, and she looked to the reaching of the trees, their crowns just within sight, the sun there, breaking through to her, and it felt as if she thought she was standing beneath a canopy of new life; new days, days that just might hold the possibly of hope lasting. Like a wish made

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somewhere, at some time. But no, probably not, and now Josip, he’s telling me, it’s a common enough thought, when thinking about the years of one’s childhood, to associate this time in life with freedom. I guess, or was it just the parents I had? My mother, an academic, who, although she cared for her kids, was occupied with other things. Her work, mostly. Fair enough. And Jake? Well, he was something else altogether, an old-time editor: Irish whiskey, cigars, and a blue grease pencil. He was a great guy, I tell Josip. Who? Jake. Yeah? Yeah. But when he’d had enough, that was it, the belt would come off, and he’d say, “Don’t move, I don’t want hit your kidneys.” And I remember thinking to myself: What the fuck was a kidney? I didn’t know. Josip’s laughing, and I’m laughing, now, too, and that girl, she’s there again, in my mind, standing, brushing leaves away from herself and noticing a small heart-shaped golden locket with a thin gold chain wrapped around her left hand. She touched it, the smoothness of it. There was a latch, and she pressed it, but it wouldn’t open. She looked around her, and she wondered again, where was she? She stood, touching her hair, as if measuring the length of it. She looked again at the locket and she untangled it from her hand, watching it twirl in the light, and she said to the trees; to the light; to the ground holding below her, where’d it come from, and why do I have it?

And I thought, why was this unfolding in my mind now, taking up space, when I had the commentary for The Nelligan to write, the deadline coming up fast. I should be thinking about that—about art, about how more art = a greater tolerance, and backing the truck up to the thought of art as an expression of—'I was here,’ and the reaching to the meaning of that in a place where there is no answers. And that’s the important part, the unknowingness of it, binding us together, and stopping us from tipping over into full-on crazy like a Ft. Lauderdale boardwalk on a Saturday night.

Sheila Watson, on her book, The Double Hook: “It’s about how people are driven, how if they have no art, how if they have no tradition, how if they have no ritual, they are driven in one of two ways, either towards violence or towards insensibility - if they have no mediating rituals which manifest themselves in what I suppose we call art forms."

Violence, or insensibility. The reasons why, according to Watson, we need our art forms.

Art as reaching, expanding us, making us more.

`

The girl was walking among the endless rows of towering trees, and she told herself, I’m not frightened, walking in a forest all alone, even though she did not know who she was, what her name was, or why she was there.

As kids in the 70s, I tell Josip, we had hippies as elementary school teachers that were clearly stoned, and to my memory, stoned well, while listening to The Rolling Stones at the back of the classroom with headphones.

He clearly likes the thought of this, and he smiles.

Was it surprising, our generation immediately following the hippies, a generation as young kids that watched everything turn chemical, had instilled in us a spirit of anything goes? The adults in the room basically having had the keys to the future taken from them by the now fading-out, becoming jaded, hippies. Happy enough, I suppose, this older generation, of committing to jumping into this new pool of disposable everything to make some money. Of course, by then, for many, the drugs themselves had become the thing, the limits being pushed beyond any previous known boundaries—Hello, 27 Club, and to this day, I do think that if you can make it to 28, you’ll be okay. It was quite something, open classrooms, stoned teachers, acid rain, the mass arrival of plastic, and fast food, without the knowledge yet, or means, of managing any of it. It was wild, and it was unruly, and it was a hot mess, this imperfect blooming of a disposable society.

And it was freedom, too, until it wasn’t, which, of course, gave us the 80s—the lets tame it all down and just look anything but real because honestly who wants to die at 27? or to have to think about protecting your kidneys?

Unlike these times now that are the times of a Gregory Crewdson photograph with torrents of information washing over us; washing over this overwhelming alienation, for many. Too many. Insensibility, or violence; Sheila, make it both; these mass shootings; this mass overdosing, driven from a different place, and nothing ever seen before, in its origins.

That girl—yet, it’s not a girl, now, it’s a boy, the same age, a boy fully formed in his boyness, and not partially formed, which is really quite something, He, too, was walking in that forest, a golden locket in his left hand.

And the girl, in a mist, walking slower, careful of her footing.  What was that? and she looked around, seeing countless numbers of small young children, just like her, dressed in thin and ragged clothing. Appearing. Disappearing. And now adults, of all kinds. Some holding in their arms, still and quiet babies. It saddened her, but she was not frightened, and she continued to walk.

More children.

More adults, with babies held in their arms, that did not make a sound.

She came to a fork in the forest path and did not know which way to go. A large blackbird sitting on a branch of a tree said to her, do you not see the direction the tree is pointing? And sure enough, the entire tree was formed in the shape of an arrowhead, pointing the way. It’s a moon tree, said the bird, and it flew away.

Thank you, bird, said girl.

I look at Josip, typing on his laptop, and I tell him, I miss the unpredictability of that time, the wide-openness of no one really knowing what the fuck they were doing, or why, or that, being uninformed as a society to that degree, gave birth to an absurdity that was the first, if not possibly, the only truth, from which, I’m convinced, a certain greatness was incubated that became the tech boom, should you have been fortunate enough to make it past 27, with your kidneys intact. 

 

Looking up from his laptop, Josip pauses, and he says, IDK, in the 70s, I just wanted to play some rock ‘n’ roll. 

 

Right, I say, let’s just get back to that, easier days with sounds from the radio bouncing off country neon.

The edge of the forest was in sight, and there, in that place, the girl saw a light, of its own, or so it seemed to her. Standing in the intensity of the light was a very large man, his back to her. She walked from the forest, and as she did, she looked to her left, where she saw the young boy exiting the forest at the very same time as she did.

Walking their own paths, they met at the man, each of them standing on their side of him, who did not look down at either one, but instead, continued to look at that which was before him.

The children looked, too, at the black and scorched earth. The slow swirling grey ash of what once was.

The man looked at the girl. You’re here?

Yes, she said.

He looked at the boy, and you?

Yes, said the boy.

Good, said the man. Shall we go?

Where? said the boy.

Home, of course, and he took their hands and turned and walked away from that old dead world, the grey ash of yesterday still falling.

The girl, feeling the golden locket against her chest, put her hand to it.

Next to her, so, too, did the boy. He stopped and he looked at the girl. What do you think is inside?

The girl stopped and looked at the boy. I don’t know.

The man stopped.

The girl, smiling, said, maybe one day we’ll find out?

The boy, looking at the girl, realized for the very first time, he was lost to the depth of beauty in her beautiful green eyes, and he said, yes, I think we will.

Good, she said, and they took the man’s hands again and continued to walk, the golden lockets against their chests, shining in the light of everyone’s new day.

More art = a greater tolerance, that’s what I’m thinking, as we exit The Café Orr, our breath before us in the cold, and we need it now, more than ever, in these new days soon to come, that need not be any longer a world gone Ft. Lauderdale Saturday night boardwalk crazy in our give me another painkiller—now please, alienation. Fuck that.

Art is the answer.

More art, please.

more art = a greater tolerance

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The Nelligan Review: Christian Fennell

Christian Fennell

Editor-in-chief,
The Nelligan Review

Vol. 1 / Issue 4

September 18, 2023

Days of Summer
Summer Days

           Ilike the days of summer, not that they’re lazier, as much as they seem to be easier days, less constrained and concentrated. Easier in a sense of easier to forget the troubles of the  world, and your own, for that matter, at least, for a while. Troubles of the world that remain constant: poverty; child poverty, war, the weak, self-absorbed thinking of the rich and powerful, to the more current troubles of the world: Trump, the RNC and DNC, the Ukraine/Russian war, Elon Musk. People tend to travel more, to get away and see things, which is a form of education, of course, always a good thing, for education helps erode ignorance, and coupled with greed, they are the two biggest enemies of the world, in our time; in any time. As Nat and I did this summer, taking a road trip through the rolling hills of Prince Edward County, the vineyards, the fine tables of Picton, the beaches and their grassy, breezy sandbanks, the world’s largest baymouth barrier dune formation. In the 1,000 Island district of the St. Lawrence River, I took a stroll, wanting to stretch my legs, and I came upon a young boy and an old man fishing, and I smiled, thinking of my own time as a young boy fishing on the banks of a river with my grandfather. A warm breeze came up, and that young boy and I watched the old man close his eyes and lean his head back, warming his face to it, and he smiled. It was then I imagined that young boy watching the old man’s time drifting before us on that lazy, shaded river, real and gone, and there again, for that old man to pluck at and say—see, it’s right there, still all right there, when I was just boy, like you. And in this, there would be contentment, without meaning, in the honest days of a life. In the days of a life still to come. As if in a dream that could only ever be found by a young boy climbing up through the worn buttonhole of an old man’s time, much like I did as a young boy fishing next to my grandfather. Thirty-eight million people, I remember him saying, while staring at the river. I didn’t know then, as I do now, he meant the second world war, and all the people that had died in the name of fascism, the current riding over the backs of those dead, like it was the dead of the first world war, in the days of my grandfather’s youth. And as a young man, on the heels of trade union bashing, the collapsing of markets, the Great Depression, and all those years of human suffering. As a married man with a child, his five years with The Queen’s Own Rifles, the second world war. The current riding over all of it, indestructible and always moving, a current with not only the ability to erode rocks, but also, the bricks placed in its path by the hands of us. I watched that old man look down at that boy, and I heard him say, it’s always been there, never-ending, and it never will not be. What? I heard myself whispering. A simple and always known thing, he said. I waited. Our wanting—reaching, to the need of a just society. That’s the current? Yes, he said, that’s the current. Never-ending.

 

Yesterday Germany, today America, and tomorrow, most certainly it will be somewhere else, but none of that will ever stop the current of an easy, flowing river, that is our need of a just society.

 

To all those suffering in the Ukraine right now, may victory be yours, and may it come soon.

more art = a greater tolerance

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The Nelligan Review: Christian Fennell

Christian Fennell

Editor-in-chief
The Nelligan Review

Vol. 1 / Issue 3

June 19, 2023

Cormac McCarthy Has Died

- More McCarthy

Cormac McCarthy

And so we say goodbye to the American writer Cormac McCarthy, July 20, 1933 - June 13, 2023.  A

writer who did not receive a single royalty check from one of his first four books, over a period of twenty-eight years. And yet, he kept on … why? How? Did he know he was a writer future students of American literature would look at a map and draw a line through the names, Twain, Melville, Faulkner – McCarthy? He must have, how else can one keep going—keep paying such a steep price without the ultimate faith in oneself? Impossible. As to the how, the singular direction of his writing points us back to his faith, as he simply continued to drill down into Cormac McCarthy writing – More McCarthy. For this was not a writer of a MFA program striving toward a pixelated excellence.  A writer prepared to workshop his manuscripts and assign them to a slush pile marked consensus art. No. He was an outsider, until he wasn’t, but long enough—twenty-eight years long enough, to become a writer that could write Blood Meridian. Could it be possible any other way? We haven’t seen evidence of it yet, so, no … we only have this history, pointing the way, a way that requires the ultimate faith in oneself, without wavering, no matter what. As writers, we might not like hearing this, but then again, we must not dislike it, either, for it just is, the price to be paid to write words that last. And I really don’t think it should be any other way. The ultimate faith, in oneself, that’s it, what we have – More McCarthy.

The Passenger

by Cormac McCarthy

Random House, 2022

A Review:

A new McCarthy novel, The Passenger. His last. And what to make of it? “If we are not after essence, Squire, then what are we after? And I’ll defer to your view that we cannot uncover such a thing without putting our stamp upon it.” Which McCarthy does with The Passenger. Both things. Reaching to essence, while putting his stamp as a writer upon that searching. 

 

Told from each of their perspectives, Bobby Western mourns the death (suicide) of his younger, schizophrenic sister, Alicia Western, while being pursued by the US government for a crime--possibly, that remains unknown—to us, if not, to him. Shadowing both of them is their father’s past as one of the architects of the atom bomb.

 

As always, a McCarthy novel is a joyful ride with words, and here, too, this is true. It is not in the storytelling that this book is a departure from his previous work, it is in the goals of the story itself, as if the story was in no need of its own form: the randomness of life lived within the realm of the unknown while studying its own refection of its own telling as the precision of mathematics and physics look on, unable to offer any relief. But then, a story of grief and loss is always a tragedy, for what we feel a loss for, we are less, it becoming our reality—the lessor of us. Which is this book—the acknowledgment of this. A book without a linear need—no cause and effect here. A book uncaring of the outcome, which is what? Quite simply, it is McCarthy saying, I am a writer, and after a life lived as a writer—asking question to which there are no answers, I still have no answers, and therefore, I am in no need, with this last book, of a form within which to put the pretext of an answer, or the need of a form building to an answer, and I shall not try. And he didn’t. And he did it well, freeing himself as a writer—giving himself permission, to reach to more, while being less, and becoming even more in the process. And it reads as if he knew this is what he was writing, and why, and most importantly, when. And I like that, and I tip my hat to him, for having the courage to go out this way.

 

McCarthy was often criticized for being a writer of male fiction. Or, his inability to write women well. True enough, and something he acknowledged himself. And so, it was with great joy, with this last book, discovering the wonderfully formed, transgender character, Debussy Fields. A shot at all those who choose to make ignorance and fear their companion. “He watched her until she was lost among the tourists. Men and women alike turning to look after her. He thought that God’s goodness appeared in strange places. Dont close your eyes.”

     

Nope. And thanks for the body of work, Cormac McCarthy. A life well lived.

more art = a greater tolerance

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Vol. 1 / Issue 2

December 29, 2022

The Nelligan Review: Christian Fennell

Christian Fennell

Editor-in-chief,
The Nelligan Review

2022: War Crimes

December 29, 2022:  A good time to look back at the year that 

was, and in doing so, there is, of course, Putin’s ‘Special Military Operation’ – or, his war crimes in Ukraine. As 

of December 18, 2022 there were 10,229 Russian military personnel dead (Mediazona count). Approximately, according to the Ukrainian government, 12,500 Ukrainian military personnel and 4,000 Ukrainian civilians dead. That’s 26,729 people. Dead. And why? To satisfy the outsized, Soviétique dreams of a madman. How in 2022 can anyone—any country, think it is within the realm of acceptability to try and take over another sovereign country by force? How, in 2022, is this still tolerated by the international community? Yes, I want more to be done to put an end to this madness, because – 26,729 people dead. In the meantime, we have voices speaking out. We have artists. And this is where we need to look, in times like this—these expressions of resistance; of artists articulating, in different forms, what so many of us are feeling, especially those shouting loudest from within Ukraine and Russia—the necessary voices of defiance, much like 84-year-old Vladimir Ovchinnikov, profiled in our Art & Photography section of this issue. And so, we acknowledge, and we thank them, and may many more join them, in trying to bring an end to Putin, and his reign of tyranny.  

There is, of course, Bansky, who has created seven new murals in Ukraine, including the capital Kyiv, the suburb of Irpin, and the town of Borodyanka—among the places  hardest hit by Russian bombs.

Seth Globepainter, Paris

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Special Artistic Operation, Bucharest

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Stanislav Belovski, Bulgarian capital, Sofia

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Hijack, War Child in Los Angeles, California

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TUSE, PKM Gdansk Jasien

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Corie Mattie and Juliano Trindade,

Los Angeles, California

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Sasha Korban, Kyiv

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1GoodHombre, Santa Monica, California

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Moisey Bondarenko, frontlines Ukraine

1GoodHombre, Los Angeles, California

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Bandit, Dress Me Up for Battle, Los Angeles, California

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Street musicians, Kyiv

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Sasha Korban, Milan

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Justus Becker, Frankfurt

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Vladimir Ovchinnikov, Borovsk, Russia

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"But the relationship of morality and power is a very subtle one. Because ultimately power without morality is no longer power." - James Baldwin

For those who support Putin, or Russia, I can promise you this: you have forgotten what is worth fighting for. You have forgotten time.

And all the dead. 

For they now, too, reside in you. 

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Finbarr O’Reilly for The New York Times

more art = a greater tolerance

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Vol. 1 / Numéro 1

The Nelligan Review: Christian Fennell

Christian Fennell

Éditeur en chef,
La revue Nelligan

Pourquoi l'Amérique ne se répare-t-elle pas ?

Commentaire

plus frustrant, que les réponses à ces problèmes ne soient pas largement connues, car elles le sont. Il y a un certain nombre de pays, en ce moment, qui progressent de manière saine, libre et démocratique, dépourvu de taux de pauvreté élevés, de politiques économiques alimentant des niveaux malsains d'inégalité des revenus qui étranglent les flux de capitaux, des systèmes de santé qui fonctionnent - et aident, sans ruiner les gens, les systèmes éducatifs, censés justement cela - à éduquer, en public, de manière égale. Et puis, bien sûr, il y a le côté social des choses, les politiciens essayant de légiférer sur la morale. La promotion des «valeurs familiales», le genre qui empêche votre enfant blanc hétéro d'entrer dans des toilettes publiques et de tomber sur une personne trans et de voir son jeune ADN frais modifié de manière inimaginable, pour toujours. Quels livres sont appropriés à lire, lesquels ne le sont pas.  La Bible, pas la science. Avortement. Etc. 
 

En écrivant ce qui précède, voici ce qui me vient à l'esprit : la négligence coûte cher quand elle se rattrape, et elle se rattrape toujours. Sinon, comment une nation peut-elle cracher un Trump ? Pour accomplir quelque chose d'aussi manifestement mauvais, il faut des années. Dans ce cas, environ, quarante ans.


"La liberté d'une démocratie n'est pas sûre si le peuple tolère la croissance du pouvoir privé à un point tel qu'il devient plus fort que son État démocratique lui-même. Cela, dans son essence, est du fascisme - la propriété du gouvernement par un individu, par un groupe , ou par tout autre pouvoir privé de contrôle." Franklin D. Roosevelt , 29 avril 1938. 


Lorsqu'un ancien président (Jimmy Carter) déclare publiquement cela (septembre 2017), vous devez comprendre que le chat est à peu près tout à fait sorti du sac : "Je dirais que nous sommes devenus une sorte d'oligarchie plus que nous avoir une démocratie, maintenant. Les gens riches et les gens puissants de notre pays décident en grande partie de qui obtient la nomination et donc qui est élu au poste – pas seulement les présidents, mais les sénateurs, les gouverneurs et les membres du Congrès.


Sans le principe de fonctionnement de la « volonté du peuple », il ne peut y avoir de démocratie fonctionnelle. Il ne peut y avoir de rêve américain. Car qu'est-ce que le rêve américain, sinon la volonté du peuple opérant dans le cadre d'un système qui crée et favorise la mobilité sociale. Et aujourd'hui, en Amérique, la mobilité sociale est morte. C'est plat. En fait, un Canadien est deux fois plus susceptible de passer de la pauvreté à la classe moyenne qu'un Américain. 


Revenons à la question, pourquoi l'Amérique ne se répare-t-elle pas ? Dans quel autre domaine d'entreprise, que ce soit la médecine, la comptabilité, le droit, les affaires, la responsabilité n'a-t-elle pas d'importance ? Depuis 1980, là où commence la route qui nous a menés là où nous sommes aujourd'hui, il n'y a eu que deux partis au pouvoir. Deux parties responsables de l'état actuel des choses. Et nous nous arrêterons là, et dirons ceci : sauf le pointage du doigt rouge/bleu, c'est nauséabond, fatigué et ennuyeux.   Sans oublier, inexact. Et c'est une partie de la réponse à pourquoi l'Amérique ne se répare-t-elle pas ? Levez votre bandeau idéologique, juste une minute, et vous verrez cela. Vous verrez, il n'y a eu aucun revirement de politique publique qui aurait, à tout le moins, retardé, sinon, dissuadé l'Amérique de cette marche vers le fascisme. Car le fascisme n'est vraiment rien de plus qu'une forme ultime d'intérêt personnel. C'est, le droit des ayants droit, protégé et perpétué. Et comme des mites au verre d'une lumière la nuit qui coupe jusqu'à l'os, chaque jour, de plus en plus, dans trop d'endroits, depuis trop longtemps, le populisme grandit par en dessous. Il s'agit de poser les bonnes questions, mais d'atteindre, encore et encore, les mauvaises réponses. La cupidité et l'intérêt personnel perpétué nourrissent la négligence qui équivaut à la douleur et à la souffrance pour de plus en plus de personnes, chaque jour. 


En 1980, l'Amérique était le principal prêteur d'argent aux autres pays, avec un ratio dette/PIB de 31 %. Aujourd'hui, l'Amérique emprunte plus d'argent que tout autre pays et a un ratio dette/PIB de 127,5 %. C'est ce qu'on appelle être à l'envers. Ça s'appelle, échec. Et pourtant… mais mais… les républicains ! Les démocrates ! Ah bon?


C'est vrai, les républicains alimentent le feu de cette marche avec leur économie de l'offre. Mais les démocrates aussi, avec leur approche de la « troisième voie ». Ou ai-je tort? Les démocrates n'ont-ils pas détenu la majorité dans les deux chambres pendant les deux premières années d'Obama ? Et le mieux qu'ils pouvaient faire, avec seulement leur propre parti opposé à redresser ce qui devait être redressé, était... Obamacare ? Les soins de santé universels, avec une majorité démocratique, ne pourraient même pas avoir un aperçu de—peut-être ? Réforme de l'entreprise ? De sorte que nous n'avons pas maintenant des niveaux record de rachats d'actions. Des packages de PDG inouïs, comparés aux salaires réels qui stagnent depuis la fin des années 70. Des niveaux record d'inégalité des revenus, de pair avec des niveaux record de pauvreté (Pour info : en mai 2016 - notez la date - le FMI a émis un avertissement aux États-Unis concernant ses niveaux élevés de pauvreté, en particulier chez les jeunes). Allégements fiscaux massifs pour les sociétés. Non, non et non. Mais nous avons obtenu des renflouements d'entreprises, parce que — trop gros pour échouer. Et là, je pensais qu'en Amérique, le socialisme était une mauvaise idée ? 


Responsabilité. Où est-il? Parce que c'est important. Mais non, ce que nous obtenons, c'est une politique d'équipe. Yo, jeune 'Berniebro' en colère (quelqu'un s'il vous plaît retirez le stylo de la personne à l'Atlantique qui a sali ces gens) vous feriez mieux de voter pour Hillary (si vous aimez et vous souciez de l'Amérique) ou nous aurons Donald Trump, et puis , comment allez-vous dormir la nuit ? 


Eh bien, je ne connais pas Boomer, quand mourrez-vous ? Un peu dur ? Peut-être, mais aussi vrai. La fracture est l'âge, et rien d'autre. Mais quand, tout au long de cette belle expérience qu'est l'humanité, une génération ne s'est-elle pas dressée, dans l'idéal, contre son aînée, ses parents ? Et c'est ce que nous avons maintenant. C'est le fossé. Un qui est également alimenté par - oui, je sais que j'ai pu cueillir le fruit à portée de main de frais de scolarité bon marché en termes de dollars réels et d'un marché du travail dans une économie qui n'était pas contre moi et bien que je sache que ce n'est pas le cas pour toi je suis vraiment très bien dans la vie en ce moment j'aimerais rester comme ça s'il te plait. Sinon, comment pouvez-vous expliquer le soutien continu de ceux qui ont été au pouvoir au cours des quarante dernières années et qui nous ont amenés là où nous sommes maintenant ? Responsabilité. Ou son absence. Ou, pensez-vous encore… Républicains ! Démocrates !


Si oui, qu'en est-il de cela, vous en souvenez-vous ? Jeune homme blanc en colère, comment pourriez-vous ne pas vouloir voter pour Hillary, de sorte que - enfin, nous ayons une femme présidente ? Mon Dieu, réveille-toi ! Eh bien, je ne sais pas, mais réponds-moi, Boomer blanche, où étais-tu quand Liz est arrivée ? N'avait-elle pas combattu de manière significative la corruption des entreprises au cours des dix années précédentes ? (Attendez, vous dites que vous n'aimez pas le fascisme ?) N'est-elle pas l'une des personnes les plus intelligentes de n'importe quelle salle de Washington ? Je vais vous dire où vous étiez, sortant de l'immeuble d'une future présidente marqué de l'impôt sur la fortune. Comme si chacun de vous gagnait plus de cinquante millions par an ? Attention, alors que vous rangez votre carte hippie dans votre portefeuille alors que la porte de votre limousine est fermée pour vous, avant de vous diriger plus loin dans la tournée Obama / Hillary / Joe / Kamala d'une «troisième voie» qui n'a absolument rien fait pour empêcher cette marche actuelle vers fascisme.


Vous ne me croyez pas ? Voici le tableau de bord actuel : Soins de santé : 37e meilleur au monde, tout en y consacrant une part plus élevée de son PIB que tout autre pays. Survie, santé, éducation et nutrition des enfants : 39ème meilleur au monde. Inégalité de richesse : 71e. Espérance de vie : 46e. Pauvreté : 13,4 %, avec seulement 25 autres pays ayant des taux de pauvreté sensiblement plus élevés et plus extrêmes. Indice de liberté humaine : 17e. Liberté de la presse : 42e. Responsabilité? Où? S'il vous plaît, montrez-le-moi.

 

Il y a trois piliers dans toute société juste, et chacun doit être soutenu et protégé par la volonté du peuple – toujours. Éducation, santé et bien-être. Pourquoi? Parce que ce sont les choses qui aident à promouvoir la meilleure, la plus grande participation à une société par le plus grand nombre, de la manière la plus saine et la plus productive. Et cela équivaut à la croissance et aux opportunités pour la plupart des gens, ce qui équivaut alors à la prospérité, pour une nation. En d'autres termes, Main Street est le moteur d'une économie, pas Wall Street.

 
Et donc, oui, il n'y a que deux partis, c'est vrai, mais pas vrai. Démocrates, les républicains NE SONT PAS LE PROBLÈME, car nous savons tous qu'il est devenu le parti des radiés. C'est toi, c'est le problème. Et ici, je ne veux pas dire les baby-boomers - l'électeur démocrate de l'establishment, car comme nous l'avons vu, ils n'ont aucun intérêt apparent à regarder les résultats - la responsabilité, et ne s'intéressent qu'à leur propre statu quo. Non, ce sont les progressistes dont je tiens les mains sur le feu. Bernie cligna des yeux, et nous voici aujourd'hui. Et par là, je veux dire, c'était son Achilleas guéri, le besoin d'être accepté par l'establishment. Un qui ne voulait clairement rien avoir à faire avec lui – ou avec vous. Sauf, bien sûr, pour co-op votre vote. Tenir un pistolet sur la tempe et dire, votez pour notre candidat, ou vous serez responsable d'élire ce grand méchant là-bas vêtu de rouge. Et comment cela a-t-il fonctionné ? Et donc, il est maintenant temps pour vous, jeunes d'Amérique, de vous réveiller et d'exiger des comptes. Vous êtes la plus grande cohorte de l'histoire américaine - c'est la vôtre pour les plus exigeants. C'est à vous de le prendre. Faites passer votre candidat aux primaires démocrates ou, si les obstacles du DNC sont trop importants pour permettre que cela se produise, quittez le parti. L'un ou l'autre, pour un parti démocrate divisé, ne sert plus à personne. En fait, cela maintient l'Amérique brisée. Vous êtes les derniers debout, et c'est maintenant à vous de faire la différence. C'est vous qui pouvez réparer l'Amérique et arrêter cette folie ; cette marche vers le fascisme. Et à vous, mes beaux frères et sœurs Boomer, je vous laisse ceci : "Une société grandit lorsque les vieillards plantent des arbres dont ils savent qu'ils ne s'assoiront jamais sous l'ombre." – Proverbe grec.

 

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