The Misanthrope’s Corner

HAVE you heard about the fabulous new true-life horror movie? It’s called Revulsion and it’s about a columnist who suddenly and inexplicably finds that she can’t bring herself to read another newspaper or watch another talking-head show. The promos are really neat; they show a picture of me curled up in the fetal position, and the voiceover says: “What happens to a cultural commentator when the only comment she can make about the culture is a raised middle finger? This is her story!”

I can’t pinpoint exactly when it started, only that it was somewhere between the controversy over the Army’s berets and the trial of Puffy Combs. I was able to form an opinion on the berets but I had no idea who Puffy Combs was, except that he was an athlete or something. I did not consider it necessary to follow his fortunes because O. J. Simpson’s trial has made child’s play of certain kinds of cultural commentary. It’s as simple as shifting the cards around on a perpetual calendar— different year, same dozen Black History Months. Whoever Puffy Combs was, the cultural comment was ready and waiting, carved in stone: “Whatever he did, he didn’t do it.”

About the Author

Florence King

Florence King was a contributing editor of National Review.

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HAVE you heard about the fabulous new true-life horror movie? It’s called Revulsion and it’s about a columnist who suddenly and inexplicably finds that she can’t bring herself to read another newspaper or watch another talking-head show. The promos are really neat; they show a picture of me curled up in the fetal position, and the voiceover says: “What happens to a cultural commentator when the only comment she can make about the culture is a raised middle finger? This is her story!”

I can’t pinpoint exactly when it started, only that it was somewhere between the controversy over the Army’s berets and the trial of Puffy Combs. I was able to form an opinion on the berets but I had no idea who Puffy Combs was, except that he was an athlete or something. I did not consider it necessary to follow his fortunes because O. J. Simpson’s trial has made child’s play of certain kinds of cultural commentary. It’s as simple as shifting the cards around on a perpetual calendar— different year, same dozen Black History Months. Whoever Puffy Combs was, the cultural comment was ready and waiting, carved in stone: “Whatever he did, he didn’t do it.”