Went down to the Shenandoah one morning, early, expecting just the river and maybe some birds. The sun hadn't been up an hour. I saw a speck upstream out in the middle, coming around a bow, a flash of color. An umbrella. Then I saw that it was a person, a very fat person, wearing a red straw sunhat, in red and white striped bermuda shorts, riding an inner tube that must have been from a tractor, to which were tethered a brace of white styrofoam coolers, which floated along behind, loyal retainers. If he didn't weight four hundred, he weighed nothing.
He was reading the paper. The Washington Post. There is simply nothing to be said about an incident like this. You think, as I did, watching him float pharaonically by, that words--any words--would categorically fail. And you'd be right.
You'd still, however, have words themselves.
But now George W. Bush, surely a dude who knows which end of the bong to drink from, has just given a press conference with Mr. Putin.
Words, once the pretty tokens we used to transmit meaning, are now totally useless, having lost any relation to any antecedent reality.
Heaven help us. There is nothing more to say.