The sport of blasphemy
“When beggars die, there are no comets seen; the heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.” We’re going to have to revise Shakespeare and for “princes” substitute “pop-stars.”
Another went down in the night. First thing I heard on the wireless on waking – accompanied by several sample blasts of noise. The air waves will be infested with hysterical “tributes” all day long.
The adoring journalists and broadcasters can’t quite get the nomenclature right though. They refer to these dead cacophonists as “artistes” and “musicians.”
That can’t be right.
Ah but suddenly they hit on the right word and describe their dead heroes as “iconic.”
Spot on. Blasphemous, yes. But still spot on. For an icon is something you may worship. And pop-stars are what the devotees of our debased culture worship.
And the object of worship says as much about the character of the worshipper as it does about itself. What we worship defines us.
Show me what you value, and I will tell you what you’re worth.
I think I shall show uncharacteristic reticence and say no more.