In all truth, Mr. Rove, I do not preach to you. One does not swerve a high priest from his purposes,--rather, one dodges the stones. Which, when one strips away the hypocrisy and fine words is what boys do; tho it may be that you missed out on some of that. The sting of the stones is honest, sir, of that I can attest; but no, I do not preach to you, only those that you deceive. Rest assured, it will not be me that records the history of your time upon the stage.
Our path of honors diverge, mined mired in dog shit, yours as a lap dog in the seats of power, in neither, I'll warrant at least, was honor very much involved. The temper of the times, perhaps, as there were few that licked that dog's ass in Sodom, as we all lied in the struggle to be free. Fact is, I've met a few good men, but not many, though the definition of good might vary, and it may be that you would include yourself as one of those. If so, I could not agree, not having met you, I have only your actions as a guage. Possibly, should you become apprised of my own actions, you would find them objectionable; I would not fault you for that, as I said our course of honors did not seek the same path. The path of authority did not appeal to me, to you it was all that did. "what matter if a man should gain the whole world...?" Let's just say the price deterred me.
After Caesar, it all fell into some disrepute, an archaic ritual, the game changed to a lavish boot licking, a list of those who must be pleased today--the toady who sweeps about the room bearing good news and gifts, false words upon the health of the king. As to that, you would know far more than I, I have only the histories to guide me. In those it seems the good men most often are dead in short order. They often lie unburied, and rot outside the palace walls. To judge by the pages, one might consider that the conservative ideal, I would not be so hasty, as times change, and more insidious methods are employed.
I might argue, were I so inclined, that the dignatas associated with the path of honors, would depend not so much on the honors themselves but rather on the influence of truth in their acquisition, a point not lost upon Caesar as he hesitated at the Rubicon. In the end, it might be said that he chose himself over the welfare of the state, and the Republic ended. Is it not sad when such men no longer respect the institutions which brought them into such a position in the first place? of what worth is a path of honors in such a case? Empty titles, one might imagine. A humble man, such as myself, might be glad not to have such a treasure to toss away. Not to repeat myself, as Haughty Anthony did--but our paths did diverge.
Caesar was ambitious, so they said, and they were all honorable men.
One comes to the nature of success, in some sense I suppose, that depends on one's own nature, that is to say, are we tied to the trappings of life or to life itself.
We must look through the prism of ourselves, the fiction that is "me"--a fractured entity that peers through the veil at the other actors on the stage--and like Augustus we ask if we have played our part well, and the answer lies in the part we choose to play. We want to know if we had a role in the outcome of the Game, whether someone might remember our name. Time out of mind, most are content to melt back in the river, some want to leave a scar, some let the matter be deferred, and in due course some are more revered than others, having in some way changed the water of the river. Success might be more than what we first surmised when we began our enquiry, in some ways easier than we thought, and in others impossible. We create a ripple; at least the fiction believes he did, and who's to say, perhaps he really was for a time, tipping his hat to the passersby.
Ah, Mr Rove--I have put you off for several days--perusing your accusations, your depravities, your failure.
What a mess! Talking some shit to make it all shiny? Won't wash, nope--still a mess. I'd apologize; thanks to you, America is tottering on the brink and may fall into the tank with hungry sharks. Seems kinda idiotic to me, seeing you dance from from the desk of one mad dog to another spewing blame on everyone but yourself. Machiavelli would have laughed at you, then cut your throat--Dumb fuck, you can't go half-way to Hell and then turn back again. The Armies of the Night don't sleep, they just keep gnawing away on you.
You call that crap an Idealogy? Just wondering. Stolen elections, blackmail, libel, torture, bribery, coercion, fraud?--and that makes you rich, an American success story? Is it like success when you get up every morning making the rounds of the shit slingers defending yourself till you fall over dead? I reckon that's the price you pay for only going half way, had you finished the trip your enemies would disappear wouldn't they? As it is, you can't even frame them anymore.
I don't suppose there is a right & wrong, all that matters is where you wind up.
I wonder though just where you'll be in the Roll of Great Americans, somewhat down the list of ones who didn't quite measure up I'd surmise, somewhat north of John Wilkes Booth, but a bit south of Boss Tweed.