Lest They Cease to Interest Us...

There are persons who, when they cease to shock us, cease to interest us. ~F.H. Bradley, Aphorisms

I'd hesitated to ever write on this subject, to ever voice my feelings. Why? What could EVER lock the lips of the outspoken C. Zampa?

Fear.

I've been silenced by fear, rendered dumb by it.

But when I came across the above quotation, the 'nature' of the beast I'd feared became clear to me and I suddenly recognized it for what it was: a very small, very meaningless, very sad monster. Not even a monster, but more like that Wizard behind the screen. An illusion of power that really is just...well, a being hiding behind a screen.

Recently I witnessed a storm of cyclone proportions in the literary world. I cannot even tell you how it started, as I---as usual---walked into the middle of the unsettled waters after they'd been stirred to tidal wave strength. But by the time I DID venture into the surf, it had become what appeared to be a lynch mob, out to hang an author.

The mob grew to horrific proportions, being egged on by what seemed a small handful who led the chants to kill, kill, kill, begging for blood, blood, blood. A literal cyber crucifixion took place. A blatant attempt to ruin, to slaughter.

I won't even say what the crowd's accusations were. To me, since it was not grounded by fact but by bitter whispers that grew into roars of meanness, I walked away.

Even so, coward that I am, I lay low, hoping those searchlights of hatred never find me lurking in the shadows. What if I displease this angry horde? What if I say something---even accidentally---to draw their wrath? Will MY book be next? Will they crucify ME?

There it is. Fear. And I'm ashamed to admit it. I'm embarrassed to confess I would choose not to voice my disapproval for mob mentatlity due to fear of retaliation, for terror that my own book might be targeted, that I as an author would be the next victim. I regret the fear that my own success would be somehow impeded was greater than my couarge to stand up to the cruelty, to say I do not like it, that is wrong.

It IS wrong. It's bullying. And I suspect the same voices at the front lines of the terror brigades are surely the very same who unite in anger over bullying in schools, yet do not realize they are just as bad.

Voices that hold court in such demeaning form go beyond the bounds of the critic. Alice Duer Miller said, If it's very painful for you to criticize your friends - you're safe in doing it.  But if you take the slightest pleasure in it, that's the time to hold your tongue. 

Truer words.

And their power---their ability to generate fear---in my eyes anyway, is lessened by the fact that they indeed conduct themselves so in order to shock, to draw attention, to insure a consistent crowd. And if the curious minds who feed their insatiable need for attention at the expense of their peers---for it IS their own peers they target---ever walked away, bored with the high-octane snark? Would the cruelty wither and die?

Unfortunately, I don't suspect to see that happen any time soon. So, in the meantime, I'll cling to this thought by Andre Gide, There are very few monsters who warrant the fear we have of them. 

And, sure, I'll remain in fear that because I've spoken---oh, hell, it would take even less to spark bitter minds---they will set their sights on me.

And I'll write. Knowing my voice of dissent will surely draw them like the scent of blood to a vampire or raw meat to a hungry lion, I'll still write.

Others who stood in such arenas have survived. Proof that the animosity only has a brief moment to wail before the rubber-neckers get bored and walk away, waiting for the next uproar.

And while I continue to write and while I probably continue to cower, I'll pray every night to keep my heart in its rightful place and I truly will keep that golden rule, to do unto my peers as I would have them do unto me.

In the dictionary, the word for this rule is: RESPECT.