Chapter 23: Rise Like Lions, Deborah Slumber! (Honest Adolph, Volume III)


Deborah thumbed through the old almanac of archived tweets. Her heart was troubled.

‘The Left’ is now (relatively speaking) dominated by people who are economically progressive, but not civil libertarian.
This is deeply disturbing to all those who care about our country.
The ‘Left’ I believe in is economically progressive and reformist.
But also secular, pro-speech, pro freedom, pro civil liberties, pro privacy, pro peace.
But we have lost a great deal.
Here in Europe and the West, certainly.
Not least in the land of Seneca Falls
And yet, many of these ideas are now deemed…
CONSERVATIVE (!)
Shouldn’t they be questions of basic decency, not of partisan left or right affiliation?
Maybe that is asking too much.
Maybe it is asking too much in ANY age.
But it’s as though one has to choose between the ‘Regressive Left’ vs a ‘Conservatism’ that has a very inhumane vision of economic policy.
This is a false choice, and false dilemma.

All of a sudden, her she jerked upwards with a start.

She could see a younger, sturdier, and if anything, even more fidgety and Saul Friedman laughing her to scorn.

In those days, Saul was more hale and hearty; although highly-strung and given to anxiety, as he was now, Saul’s eyes never used to have that haunted and desperate look. The very idea that Saul would ever remotely entertain a ‘Big Government Socialist’ like Adolph, and for a Presidential run, of all things… ?!

Impossible!

Simply impossible.

And yet, and yet…

What was that song again?

Out of the very corner of her mind’s eye, if not all with any clearer vision (or foresight?) like this, she seemed to remember the two old friend and rivals roaring in a drunken fervour of liberty’s rage and sorrow.

Rise, like lions after slumber

Freedom’s unvanquishable numbers!

Shake DC’s chains to earth like dew

For tyranny’s doze hath captured you:

For ye are many, they are few!

Yes, we are many, and they are few?

Deborah stirred slightly in her chair, trying to remember if this curious re-artificing of the immortal words of Shelley had indeed been thus sung and chanted; some night, some place.

She could not tell the difference.

Was it a real memory or a merely fraudulent delusion?

‘Either way, it is for us,’ she murmured, as she finally closed her eyes.

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