The Age of Mean
Ages rise and rot, and this one smells like cheap cologne, pancake make-up and cold, hard cruelty. The Age of Reason left town long ago, probably hitchhiking with Elvis, and in its place slithers the Age of Mean—petty, ugly, and proud of it. Welcome to the golden era of the selfish, the crass, the smug boor with a megaphone and a middle finger raised to anything resembling decency. In this week’s Camino a Ítaca, a long, bittersweet gaze back to when empathy wasn’t a punchline, and “love thy neighbor” wasn’t just another blunt object for hypocrites to swing at their enemies. This piece, apparently too radioactive for an English-reading audience, fell victim to the silent chokehold of self-censorship. The shadow of Musk looms large, its stench thick and suffocating, proof that even across the Atlantic, the game is rigged, and the referees have left the building.
As one rejection email advised: “Thank you for submitting this to the Post-Gazette. It’s not an article we can use, partly because we favor a cooler, more humanistic style (not referring to people as “slithering,” for example)…”
But then one light shone out of the cowed darkness. Rabble.ca took at chance. Click over and see what the fuss was about.
