I have been traveling and while traveling I fell sick. The blogging muse does not visit a sick man who daily moves between hired lodgings, and who nightly groans and gags in a damp and tissue-strewn bed. My illness may be best described as a great sticky sundae of influenzal misery that is garnished, science now says, by covid sprinkles. This misery was yesterday, however, somewhat tempered by the fact that I returned home and am now gagging and groaning and napping just as I please.
An old and well-liked neighbor died just a few days before we left on our travels. My wife asked if we should visit him when he returned from hospice and I said no. I expect that dying is profoundly embarrassing and therefore, like everything that is profoundly embarrassing, best done in private. Sickness is similar, although the profundity of the embarrassment is no doubt less great.
I have often here scoffed at the puerilities mountebanks conjure from Genesis 1:27, but a new angle of mockery was opened to me this morning as I dragged my listless eye down a page. Imagine the theology that must issue from a literalist reading of Genesis 1:27 and a realist understanding of God’s trousered ape. Are we to suppose that God is a vain, truculent and greedy buffoon?
“Well, what if I did put it on a little at that luncheon? . . . . In his confabulations with His chosen people, does not the Creator of the Universe Himself take every opportunity of impressing on those Hebrews His importance, His power, His glory? Was I not made in his image.”*
*) Logan Pearsall Smith, More Trivia (New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1921), p. 32.