Rereading Seymour Hersch in The New Yorker. Christ, it’s searing. Explain to me what the Rumsfelds of this world, the Gonzales’, explain to me what the prize is. Or is it just that when you no longer feel what other humans feel, you are capable of anything.

These mild men. Not-men. Our own, pale Eichmanns. Read the rest of this entry »