Navalny
- Mike Dickey
- Oct 14, 2024
- 4 min read
The party of swindlers and thieves is putting forward its chief swindler and its chief thief for the presidency. We must vote against him, struggle against him.
A brief, late-in-the-day post after spending several hours this morning trying to catch up on tax homework unfinished due to a trial and Hurricane Helene. The online program requires 40% completion by tomorrow morning. After much crying and gnashing of teeth, I'm at about 38%. The rest can wait until morning.
Struck this morning by the contrast in the headlines I read to start the day, and the publication by the New Yorker of Alexei Navalny's diary entries from prison in the months leading up to his murder at the direction of Putin.
Navalny's musings from solitary confinement, from prison yards well above the Arctic Circle, are amazing in their stoicism and optimism that turn more on faith than some cheery illusion about the future of Russia and the organized crime gang who run it.
It's part Bonhoeffer, part Camus, maybe part Tolstoy. It's what courage looks like, and stands as an example of how to speak back at tyranny even at the cost of one's life.
Here in the U.S., meanwhile, DJT has moved on to suggesting his administration would start jailing "the enemy within." That's not just those who ran against him, but the press, anyone who speaks out about the debasing of the judiciary on his shift, social media companies . . .
And at a rally where he was briefly interrupted by a female heckler this past weekend, as she was dragged away he suggested when she gets home she'd likely get the "hell knocked out of her", presumably by a male figure living in the home. Not the sort of "protector" most women have in mind.
It's absolutely appalling that anyone in this country would vote for the man who would be Putin. And yet they will, in droves. My idiot neighbors, mumbling something about the "economy" and "immigration", although by all metrices the economy's going gangbusters, and the surge at the border is decidedly down of late.
Their answer: it's just him talking, he doesn't really mean all that.
Because, you know, it can't happen here. Right?
Navalny calls me up short, makes me hold my manhood cheap that I am not more outspoken about the perils of the moment. Maybe being a little more public would give someone else courage. My friend Gentner Drummond manages to stand up as attorney general of a very red state to stop an unjust execution, saying if folks don't like it they can just elect someone else next time. I worry that if I publicly suggest it's borderline treason to vote for Trump, the phone will stop ringing with would-be clients wanting to pay me to litigate over caulk.
All sort of depressing, so I'll cut and paste a joke Navalny recounted in his diary. The humor is very Russian, but if your sense of humor runs that way you'll find it (I hope) laugh out loud funny.
A boy goes out for a stroll in the courtyard of his apartment block. Boys playing soccer there invite him to join in. The boy is a bit of a stay-at-home, but he’s interested and runs over to play with them. He eventually manages to kick the ball, very hard, but unfortunately it crashes through the window of the basement room where the janitor lives. Unsurprisingly, the janitor emerges. He is unshaven, wearing a fur hat and quilted jacket, and clearly the worse for a hangover. Infuriated, the janitor stares at the boy before rushing at him.
The boy runs away as fast as he can and thinks, What do I need this for? After all, I’m a quiet, stay-at-home sort of boy. I like reading. Why play soccer with the other boys? Why am I running away right now from this scary janitor when I could be lying at home on the couch reading a book by my favorite American writer, Hemingway?
Meanwhile, Hemingway is reclining on a chaise longue in Cuba, with a glass of rum in his hand, and thinking, God, I’m so tired of this rum and Cuba. All this dancing, and shouting, and the sea. Damn it, I’m a clever guy. Why am I here instead of being in Paris discussing existentialism with my colleague Jean-Paul Sartre over a glass of Calvados?
Meanwhile, Jean-Paul Sartre, sipping Calvados, is looking at the scene in front of him and thinking, How I hate Paris. I can’t stand the sight of these boulevards. I’m sick and tired of all these rapturous students and their revolutions. Why do I have to be here, when I long to be in Moscow, engaging in fascinating dialogue with my friend Andrei Platonov, the great Russian writer?
Meanwhile, in Moscow, Platonov is running across a snow-covered courtyard and thinking, If I catch that little bastard, I’ll fucking kill him.
Comments