In former times it was a simple place,
Where one could read without a blushing face,
With thickly bound and edifying titles,
Like Noble Greeks, and red highlighted Bibles,
And Shakespeare (sans Andronicus), and Mark Twain,
Whose humor, though defiant, was humane.
Today it’s more permissive, and diverse,
Though who’s to say it’s better, or it’s worse.
Now crammed beside the Good Book, mere shelves over,
Are bloody tales as chilling as October,
And novelettes as lurid as those scenes
Displayed in certain grownup magazines.
—J. P. Celia
Give the National Endowment for the Arts Back to the Public
For decades, Americans have become increasingly alienated from the American arts establishment. The main source for their…
Pro-Lifers and the Trump Administration: Wins, Concerns, and the MAHA Opportunity
Anyone with eyes to see and ears to hear knows that the pro-life movements have received some…
Manners, Methods, and Greatness
Browsing Footprints in Time, the memoirs of Winston Churchill’s longtime private secretary, John Colville, I found a…