Here I am, perhaps not isolated in thisnfeeling, but neither am I palpablynbolstered by the sight of someonenlikeminded in this parched desert of conformity.nAs I see it, the Village Voice, anNew York weekly publication, is the incarnationnof evil. Not the refined sin thatnhas the power to fascinate; nor thenmiserable vice that might be rescuednthrough broadmindedness and compassion;nnor even that brutal wickednessnthat inspires noble outrage. The Wsnkind of evil is disgusting and contemptible,nan accumulation of iniquitous proclivitiesnin politics and tastes that makesnone wince at having to defile one’s shoenin order to push it aside. William Blakenwrote about how “to see the earth in thengrain of sand/Heaven in a wildflowern. . .” The FFpeople see the universe in androp of sperm; any means to promotenthis vision as the ultimate in human aspirationsntheir editorial offices pursue as ansacred mission, and they saturate theirnefforts with an idiosyncratic brand ofnfanaticism and intolerance. In short, insofarnas one can summarize an obese issuenof W, it is a journal in which Britishnapologists and exegetes for Arafat, or discreetnpro-Khadafy propagandists, preachnthe moral arguments of updated Bolshevism.nIt is the Pravda of the Americannbehavioral left, dedicated to coveringnthis land with the sUme of incoherent instinctsnpresented as jote de vivre, tondrowning it in coquettishly perfumednsludge of incommodious human secretions.nIt is a Bill of Rights for any imaginablensexual deviation and debasement,nthe holy writ of post-Marcusian casuistsnand postsituational-ethics sophists whosenonly quest is to divest the American middlenclass from its last remnants of civilizednurbanity and quickly peddle thisnstriptease to their radic-bourgeois clientele.nIt’s the conceptual organ for muckrakersnof bodily and mental effluvia, forndeodorized Neanderthals who, togethernwith the cynical claqueurs for internationalncommunism (they occasionallynsnub the Soviets to flaunt the sophisticationnof their political emotions) are deadlyndetermined to turn this country inton5()inChronicles of Cultarenan institutional tyranny of specious ideasnand smelly propensities. Their ideologicalnvapors pollute the intelligentsia’s collectivenmind more insidiously thannanything that ever oozed out of LovenCanal. If I were ever to abandon for a momentnmy innate addiction to poise andnrestraint, I would say that the papernstinks.nThe Village Voice is owned by anIM^/AA^n^CJl^TMCS-S-nIfi^ii^ncosmopolitan press tycoon who, Inread, considers and describes himself asna conservative.nNow, I, like everyone else, am a compositenof two selves which have long beennin fierce conflict. Half of me is tormentednby the question: How could anyone animatednby a conservative impulse not feelnguilt for selling such detriment to a societynstill clinging to the vestiges of a civilizationalnorder? Is it his belief in diversity,nin seminal differences, in latitude forneven the most noxious view, that makesnhim tick? Is it the conservative traditionnof forbearance that prevents him fromninfluencing the national psyche in keepingnwith his own principles? Is the gendemannwho retains Village Voice actuailyna genteel and delicate pluralist whonknows that equity is a conservative value,nthe glory of his persuasion, and thatngranting unconditional editorial freedomnis an expression of faith in fairness?nYet the other side of me, that part ofnme that’s small and narrowmindcd, corruptible,nmisanthropic, secular, irascible,npeevish, reactionary, and vilely ungenerousnwith other people’s merits,nkeeps telling me that scummy impuritynof body and mind is what sells best in to­nnnday’s journalistic market. It says that thenhottest merchandise appeals to the lownpleasures of derangement, especiallynwhen it is expertly blended with base,nshrill, radical leftism featured as tendernsocial conscience. And that the anarchynof inclinations and standards is the mostnprofitable commodity in the midst of thenAmerican affluence that was achieved bynappeals diametrically opposed to those ofnthe Village Voice—namely to civic andnmoral virtues.nI must admit that my ignoble selfnwins, hands down. Not long ago, a textnwas made public in the Voice whichnproved that some conservative illusionsnbelong to history’s dustbin. It came tonthe fore in an open letter from some ofnthe Village Voice’s doctrinal stormntroopers (who considered themselvesnunderpaid for their chores, demandedncushier benefits, and considered a strike)nwhich stated urbi et orbi:nThe editorial freedom enjoyed bynVoice writers is not granted by Murdochnas a reward for the docility of hisnstaff. Murdoch has a keen enoughnbusiness sense to know that thenreaders who provide his substantialnprofits would be less than receptive tonanti-abortion diatribes or articles supportingnincreases in military spending.nStrike or not strike, editorial freedomnat the Voice continues to be anlucrative proposition for its owner.nMr. Murdoch is, of course, the VillagenVoice’s proprietor. He also owns thenNew York Post, New York magazinenand the Times of London. So varied anmotley of publishing ventures andnstances in both America and Englandnseems not to ruin his sleep—he’s annAustralian. He is also a businessman, ancapitalist and a prim citizen, according tonthe gossip columns. I wonder what thenword “pluralism” brings to his mind—nthe opposite 0^2. single dollar? And whynis he called conservative? “There won’tnbe an answer . . .” as they used to announcenin old melodramas when someone’snrespectability was being pondered.n