Navelgazing

I wasn't going to post today, but this piece on Camille Paglia, self-appointed "cultural critic" of everything that's wrong with everything that's not Camille Paglia, by the late Molly Ivins caught my eye:

"So write about Camille Paglia,'' suggested the editor. Like any normal person, I replied, "And who the hell might she be?''

Big cheese in New York intellectual circles. The latest rage. Hot stuff. Controversial.

But I'm not good on New York intellectual controversies, I explained. Could never bring myself to give a rat's ass about Jerzy Kosinski. Never read Andy Warhol's diaries. Can never remember the name of the editor of this _New Whatsit_, the neo-con critical rag. I'm a no-hoper on this stuff, practically a professional provincial.

Read Paglia, says he, you'll have an opinion. So I did; and I do.

Christ! Get this woman a Valium!

Hand her a gin. Try meditation. Camille, honey, calm down!

Priceless. It's also reassuring to realize I'm not the only one who thinks that Paglia is a self-absorbed blowhard.

Thanks to TBogg.