Dennis Hollingsworth

Disasters of War

Sometimes when the thought arises that perhaps my attachment to Goya might be an artifact of sentimentality (I was marked by a visit to the Prado when I was thirteen, they had an exhibition of the Caprichos at the time and I was possessed by his Saturn, Devouring his Children), I check myself. Then I come across something like Blog de Narco while scanning the news and I realize with a mix of sadness and grim registration that this theme will never expire from human experience. (Especially this link, click with caution.) How does that Platonic ditty go? "Only the dead will see the end of war." How is it that the best among us, such as Francis Fukuyama, could ever dream that we are standing on the doorstep of utopia with his "End of History and the Last Man" thesis? Perhaps we can only ever stand at the threshold, incapable of entering. It's time to play Joni Mitchell's Woodstock with a splash of bitter irony and a couple of cubes of ice.