For some reason I thought Camille Paglia was no longer writing at Salon.com. Turns out she has been for a while, and she published an article just yesterday. The reason I continue to read her is that, unlike most critics of mushy, humorless, politically correct brands of leftism, she isn’t a reactionary conservative (as her critics would claim). She’s smart enough, for example, to see that the Iraq War has been dismal and has no chance of genuine success:
If the “surge” is really working in Iraq, all my fellow Democrats should rejoice, because it’s one more step toward getting U.S. troops the hell out of there. Let Bush have his face-saving claims of victory — who cares? Just bring this stupid, wasteful war to an end. Our brave soldiers and their families have suffered enough.
No matter how popular she gets, she’ll always be outspoken and fun:
Oh, I remember the New York Review of Books — it’s something I subscribed to faithfully in the 1970s and ’80s. I had to jog myself to recall that it’s still being published. The NYRB is now a fringe periodical that I never see anywhere and hardly hear mentioned. When one of its articles ends up posted by chance online, my eyes cross at its dreary, archaic verbosity. What a small, incestuous world its readers and writers inhabit.
Of course, I could say that about the New Yorker too — another publication I literally never see anywhere except in airports. I’ve never been a fan of the New Yorker (except for its cartoons) in any of its incarnations. All that precious, fussy, gassy prose. I listen to real American voices all day long — on sports radio, political talk radio and 24-hour news. And ever since the birth of Salon in 1995, I’ve been a creature of the dynamic Web. Those people at the New Yorker and the New York Review of Books are living in an airless cultural void.
I quote the above passage specifically because I’m getting a subscription to the New York Review of Books (along with Reason Magazine) for this (past) Chanukkah. Yes, she’s right about the NY Review of Books. It’s a stuffy, irrelevant intellectual clique nourished by Edward Said and imported cheese from France. But the fact remains that, unlike Salon, it’s a great place to hear smart people talk about good books.