I’m moderately proud of my writing abilities, my skills as an “essayist” (as Kevin calls me). But every now and then, I find someone who is so much better at it than I am that I wonder why I ever thought I’d be any good at this gig.
Bill Whittle is one of those people. His ability to craft an essay leaves me in awe. He will give long, detailed vignettes, two and three and four at a time, that seemingly have nothing to do with each other — and then tie them all together into a single, unifying theme. I almost never see the theme coming despite his generously giving it to us in the title.
My sole consolation is that Bill Whittle is slow. I know that “deliberative” or “thoughtful” or “contemplative” would be fairer words, but I don’t feel like being fair. I, like so many others, sometimes resent those above me, and in my desire to beat them, try to drag them down rather than to elevate myself. So yeah, I say he’s slow. He’s ponderous. He’s glacial.
But I also say that with a tinge of gratitude. I know that sometimes quantity has a quality of its own. I know that on almost any given day, I have something newer, fresher, than he does.
Today ain’t one of those days.
Go, read, and be enlightened. I’ll be off in the corner by myself, drinking and muttering vague threats.