Slate's Jack Shafer, inveterate practitioner of the countercyclical twist-and-reverse, warns that "tiny tendrils of trepidation are starting to drift over the liberal members of the commentariat and the political press corps." Not because they fear Obama will lose, but because they're so enraptured by him, "so convinced that his candidacy is momentous, without parallel, and earth-shattering," so "in love with the idea of Obama, of the 'meaning' of his run for the presidency," that they're courting "performance anxiety." "How," he wonders, "do you pack all the Obama touch points--healing, hope, change, civility, the second coming of Camelot, post-boomer politician, inspirer of youth, great uniter, world president, and so on--into one story without sounding hagiographic?"
Speaking for myself, I make no apologies for hearty enthusiasm, even spells of giddiness, whiffs of overconfidence calling for iron realism which then gives way to musings about this moment's transformational possibilities, the obstacles to same, and the Meaning Of It All. What with America's long-running abdication of moral nerve, a ruinous war, piles of spectacular malfeasance in high places and manifold abominations of the last eight years, any writer alive to the moment may be forgiven a touch--or more than a touch--of the rhetoric of wild aspiration. Hell, even an analytically tinctured gloat or two about the ruptures of the conservative movement is acceptable in my book.
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