Monday, December 16, 1985
Daily Nebraskan
Pago 5
Letters
Guest opinion on apartheid makesactual, ethical mistakes
This letter is in regard to the guest
opinion (Daily Nebraskan, Dec. 13) on
apartheid from students representing
the UNL College Republicans.
The first fascinating remark in the
article , is "A self-professed Marxist,
Mandela stated that...he would kill
again...."
Do the writers imply that to be a
Marxist one must be a murderer? Or
did theyjuxtapose the two ideas in
the best tradition of propaganda to
elicit guilt by association? The first
mistake is one of fact; the second, one
of ethics. The term "self-professed"
inspires all the awe of the confessional.
After this is a curious aphorism:
"selective indignation rarely allows for
the interference of factual realism."
I wholeheartedly agree. "Factual
realism" is indeed a meddlesome thing,
and should learn its proper place. Later
we find an attack on "wanton advo
cates of violence." This I must protest.
Wanton though they may be, let's keep
their sexual proclivities out of it. Any
way, I think the writers would have
inspired more indignation with a dif
ferent phrase. After all, "wanton" and
"violent" remind us of half of our
prime-time heroes.
The fact that "liberal politics and
liberal thinking...make a bad situation.
. .worse," is supported rapidly by some
keen historical insights.
I will add my own voice to the chorus
by mentioning that liberal thinking in
the West, from the Renaissance to the
Revolution, has brought us to our pres
ent, unhappy condition, in which, each
of us being comparatively free, we
think more of political and economic
benefits than universal principles of
justice.
By the way, this concern for the Uni
ted States' political and economic
advantage, voiced in the third para
graph of the opinion, is curious in con
trast with the condemnation of "self
serving" extremists at the end of the
article.
But it is more curious still that the
writers should pick this epithet for
those few of us who were present at the
rally. What is it we were after? Money?
Popularity? Prestige? Or perhaps just a
clean conscience?
Brian Chaffin
junior
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V7ELSCH from Page 4
We stopped in front of the apartment
and got out. .
As I stood, I turned and glanced in
the car.
What I didn't see terrified me. A
giant hand slapped me to the ground,
then picked me up and twisted me
until my soul bled. My consciousness
was struck by a rending thunderbolt.
The wine was not in the car.
The roof of the car, covered with icy
snow, bore a rectangular skid mark
where the crate had rested. I dashed
around the front of the Pontiac, grabbed
Geoff by the collar and dragged him to
the driver-side door. I threw him in and
started the car, Using all 400 cubic
inches of muscle under the hood, I
pulled a 180 degree turn on the ice and
careened down the street like William
"Refrigerator" Perry on ice skates.
Geoff turned an unnatural shade of
white and clung to the dashboard, all
the time begging for more caution.
"You're in this trip to the finish,
cur!" I screamed, knowing that my san
ity rested in those six $7 bottles of
Napa Valley Sauvignon Blanc. I knew
that if they were gone, I would be in
debt, and the. animals that had been
gnawing at the skin of my inner being
all day would break through with their
sharp fangs.
I got onto 17th Street and sped
toward campus, sliding in and out of
lanes fearlessly. A woman in a Ford
Fairlane turned off without using her
turn signal. "Die, worm!" I exclaimed.
"These drivers here, Geoff, cannot
be trusted and should be summarily
shot, or at least their toenails should
be pulled out with red-hot tweezers," I
said through gritted teeth. Sweat bead
ed on my upper lip and forehead des
pite the cold that froze the mucus in
my nose.
We almost lost control in the turn
onto R street.
. I slowed down at 19th and made the
fateful turn. Fifteen minutes had trans
pired since the discovery. Fifteen min
utes in the grip of a fear no man should
have to experience, yet most do the
hydra-headed terror of one's own inep
titude. The headlights illuminated the car-
lined street. There, right in the middle
of the street so that no car could have
possibly passed around it, was the case
of wine.
I drove up to it and hopped out of the
car. A shaft of-moonlight broke from
the clouds, and fell on the wine. I
picked the box.up and shook it gently.
Nothing leakedout of the bottom. No
glass tinkled. Jt had survived the fall. It
had escaped .the marauding eyes of
passers-byJ "
I hugged Geoff and shouted for joy.
"It's a miracle a miracle on 19th
Street!" We loaded up the wine and
started the long drive to B-town.
Both of us were filled with the glow
of being alive and being happy about it.
We had passed through a hamburger
grinder and had come out better for it.
As we drove down the frozen high
way, I looked up at the sky through the
windshield and. winked I didn't tell
Geoff, but there, were reindeer tracks
and skid marks by that crate of wine on
19th Street. , ,
Welsch is a journalism and English major
and a copy desk'chlef.
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