Fantasizing.

So spoke righteous Vandermeer, and hefted his sturdy boot
High for a thrust; o yes, and shattered the miscreant.
As, when soon through the fruiting groves will gatherers come,
Greathearted Athenians, rejoicing in bearing baskets,
Yet gentle Onchesmites has been there--shaking the fruit,
Scattering them--and the dark-fleshed olive is crushed
By the wandering hoof of a bull, one lowing mightily:
So on the rigid curb did Constantijn's son
Dispatch the low-born enemy. He checked his strength
And turned to subtle Heldenberg with winged words...

This needs some clarification. I've long had the ugly theory that the intellectual classes have willingly and self-destructively allowed a monopoly on violence to fall into the hands of those who use violence for criminal purposes--exactly to the point of precluding self-defense, much less heroism in the defense of others. We middle-class academics, we poor souls! Of course we get mugged, how not? All we can do is capitulate. The best minds and the best morals are totally incapable of protecting their interests and their values: it's our fault. The emergency response instructions at the library tell us, over and over: wait for trained personnel. Do not attempt to intervene. Do nothing. Does it trouble anyone else, I wonder? Doesn't the idea of not running back into the smoke fill other men with a self-loathing?

But it's my fault, too--I share in that willing incapacity. What could I do in a crisis? I'm physically and morally weak. I couldn't defend the ones I love--I'm not even athletic enough to flee. No, this is unacceptable, this is out of keeping with my humanism. Now is the best time, the most obvious time, to break the hothouse glass and eat vitality hot and dark--why should I worry about putting myself in danger? My life means virtually nothing to me, not in itself. Nihil est mors a nos, nec pertinet hilum!

I'm putting on my street clothes and going downtown. This summer: krav maga if it kills me--praise the L-rd and pass the ammunition.