Thy Fearful Symmetry

Today in my dinky little hometown paper, there were–count ’em!–FIVE articles about Tiger Woods.

Talk about overkill.

I’m glad I no longer watch much TV (except for Rachel Maddow). I cannot understand why modern, more-than-half-batshit-crazy America is so obsessed with this sort of thing (along with reality shows). The only reason Tiger held this public humiliation in the first place was to keep from losing any more corporate sponsors. (And one can bet said *white male* corporations were very happy to see him put in his place.) It’s no one’s business but him and Elin’s who he screwed, and it’s up to them to work out their problems and save the marriage, if they want to.

The rest of us should neither know nor care.

It’s really pathetic to see fellow golfers (and other publicity-hungry hangers-on) raking Tiger over the coals and making comments about a situation that is none of their concern. Of course, there are all kinds of societal and patriarchal undercurrents to this, as others have commented on. Those issues deserve to be written about.

Tiger and the state of his marriage do not.

I’ll let William Blake have the final word.

TIGER, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And water’d heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?


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