To those of us who might be operatically minded (my handle gives me away), the Bush Administration at first had the markings of a quaint opera buffa. No doubt Bush would have been like Don Pasquale, out of his depth and subjected to all kinds of humiliations in a light-hearted, comical way.
Things went dark, however...very dark. We're now in the realm of high operatic tragedy, wherein the exceedingly flawed tragic hero, on the verge of comeuppance, pours out his bitterness in an extended soliloquy. As Verdi's "Macbeth" says in the great baritone aria:
Pietà, rispetto, onore,
Conforto a'dì cadenti,
Ah! non spargeran d'un fiore
La tua canuta età.
Nè sul tuo regio sasso
Sperar soavi accent;
Ah! sol la bestemmia, ahi lasso!
La nenia tua sarà.
(In English)
Pity, respect and honor,
The comforts of one's declining years,
Will not offer any flowers
For me in my old age.
Nor even at my royal tomb
Might I hope for some kind words.
Only bitter curses, alas,
Shall be my requiem.
And so it shall be. Bush appears to be coming more and more belligerent and unhinged, and why shouldn't he be so? It's obvious to everyone that his administration is a failure and his legacy shall be one of dishonor. There will be no lasting respect for his works, and curses will forever greet his name. Ignominy is all that awaits Dubya once he recedes from the Presidency. Who wouldn't be a bit upset over that?
We were for a long time, perhaps, like the Scottish Refugees, who sing their moving, plaintive chorus in Act IV:
Patria oppressa! il dolce nome
No, di madre aver non puoi,
Or che tutta a figli tuoi
Sei conversa in un avel.
D'orfanelli e di piangenti
Chi lo sposo e chi la prole
Al venir del nuovo Sole
S'alza un grido e fere il Ciel.
A quel grido il Ciel risponde
Quasi voglia impietosito
Propagar per l'infinito,
Patria oppressa, il tuo dolor.
Suona a morto ognor la squilla,
Ma nessuno audace è tanto
Che pur doni un vano pianto
A chi soffre ed a chi muor.
Oppressed country! No, the dear name
of mnother we can no longer give you
now that, for all your children,
you are changed into a tomb of death!
There is the weeping of the bereaved;
some are fathers, some are children.
At the coming of each new dawn
there arises a cry of grief to heaven,
to which cry kind heaven replies
as if with sentiments of pity.
We shall spread, wherever we go,
word of your sorrow, land of woe!
The death-knell everywhere is tolling
but none there are so brave
as to offer up a prayer
for those who suffer, those who die.
But now, we have a new song:
La patria tradita
Piangendo ne invita!
Fratelli! gli oppressi
Corriamo a salvar.
Gia l'ira divina
Sull'empio ruina;
Gli orribili eccesi
L'eterno stancar.
Our country betrayed
calls to us with voice of woe!
Brothers in arms! We run
to rescue the oppressed.
Now for sure divine wrath
will bring down ruin on the villain;
now heaven will exhaust
the horrible excesses of his crimes.
MacBush will see Birnam Wood on the move come this November.