Alan Jacobs

I find myself focusing inward, drawn back to the moment when I returned to my adversary’s text for replenishment. I did so instinctively because I knew subconsciously that it would sharpen my mind, energize my body, strengthen my will — in short, that it would restore vigor and momentum to my argument. In order to go on, I needed to feel again the moment when the villains go too far, the moment of righteous wrath which sweeps everything else away. At that precise instant, something inside says “charge.” It is an experience of tremendous empowerment. You feel, temporarily, invincible. All the faculties are galvanized, perfectly aligned, ready to do to your will. It’s the moment to look out for, the moment whose content and whose consequences need to be examined.

These remarks have a moralistic tendency, to say the least, and at this juncture, it would seem I ought to say something like, “and so the cowboys and the farmers should be friends,” or “do unto other critics as you would have other critics do unto you.” I believe in peace and I believe in the Golden Rule, but I don’t believe I’ve earned the right to such pronouncements. At least not yet. It’s difficult to unlearn the habits of a lifetime, and this very essay has been fueled by a good deal of the righteousness it is in the business of questioning. So instead of offering you a moral, I call your attention to a moment: the moment of righteous ecstasy, the moment when you know you have the moral advantage of your adversary, the moment of murderousness. It’s a moment when there’s still time to stop, there’s still time to reflect, there’s still time to recall what happened in High Noon, there’s still time to say: “I don’t care who’s right or who’s wrong. There has to be some better way for people to live.”