So much apocalyptic news nowadays. Will Israel bomb Iran’s nuclear sites? Will Obama’s healthcare act crush conscientious objectors? Will the Eurozone collapse? These are global or national apocalypses, of course, but they remind me of a personal encounter.

Some time ago, as I walked to work in a leafy suburb of Sydney, I often crossed paths with Geoff. He was English and had been a teacher of something or other. In retirement, he looked like the dishevelled younger brother of Neville Chamberlain, with a grey moustache hiding his upper lip, a frayed and funereal black suit and wispy grey hair combed back and matted down over his pate. On the back of his head there was an enormous wen, as big as an egg. He was unmistakable.

We greeted each other now and then on the footpath, discussing the weather mostly, nothing remotely personal. One day, to my surprise, he accosted me in a lather of distress.

“Michael,” he said. “Never in my whole life have I been so insulted.”

“Ah, is that so?” I responded cautiously.

“I was just in the dry cleaning shop,” said Geoff in a fury, “and the young woman there was dressed all in black.”

“Ah,” I said. I recalled the lass – she was probably a university student working part-time.

“She looked quite charming in black and I said, my dear, I am deeply grateful and I would like to invite you to dine with me. No one else has ever acknowledged that I am the Fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse.”

“Ah-ha,” I said. Geoff’s real identity was news to me and no doubt to the young lady as well. It may not have inclined her to accept Geoff’s invitation.

“And do you know what she said to me? Do you know how she responded to my kindness? She told me to…” and here Geoff uttered an expression which sounded even more incongruous on his lips than on the young lady’s.

“Ah, Geoff,” I said. “I really am quite busy. I’ll have to run.” And that was nearly the last I saw of him, although one of my friends was on a train when Geoff spied a woman in a red dress. “Behold the Scarlet Woman,” he shouted. “Behold the great whore of Babylon.” There was a certain lack of tact about this which probably impeded further discussion of this interesting theological point.

I suppose that the lesson is that excessively apocalyptic language can shut down communication. It is advice which we have always tried to follow at MercatorNet.

Anyhow, enough of the personal stuff. So far this week we have posted three articles. Zac Alstin discusses a new book by Alain de Botton under what may be the best headline we have ever had in MercatorNet: “God is dead. Can I have his stuff?” (His headline, by the way, not ours.) Ronan Wright reviews Carnage, a new film by Roman Polanski about parental pride. And a distinguished new contributor, Angelo Codevilla, detects a shift from rule of law to rule by decree in the controversy over the health care act.

Cheers,

Michael Cook,
Editor,
MercatorNet