We have come across the term ‘elitist’ in many a context especially relating to one who has not sullied his hands in the grime of Life, yet has had ‘success’ in his profession; and had exhibited ‘taste’ in his choices. But to portray them as a political class and to exemplify that class par excellence, it needs a high magnitude of understanding and to vilify them is not easy, as they say the politically right things and are seen as those who hate talk of money, yet silently cream out the society through their ostensibly altruistic policies.
After many years of reading insipid writers with those didactic homilies delivered piecemeal thru Whatsapp circulars, when I read the following by P J O’Rourke, I was exhilarated:
“Another result is the European refugee crisis. What do the elites care? The refugees aren’t crowding the halls and jostling the elites in the corridors of the European Parliament in Brussels. The refugees aren’t building shantytowns on the tennis courts at the elites’ country clubs. Young refugee men commit assaults in public places, like the Cologne train station, on public occasions, like New Year’s Eve. That’s the public’s problem. These things don’t happen at the private dinner parties elites give.
The elites fail and don’t suffer any consequences from their failures. As it is with elite carelessness about refugees, so it is with elite carelessness about immigration. To elites immigration means nannies, household staff, and fun new ethnic restaurants. Elites don’t see any similarity
between Trump’s border wall and the gated communities where they live.
To be fair to elites, they’ve got their problems too. We live in speedy times. Quick changes in social mores, economic norms, and political givens confuse everyone, especially those who thought they were leading The Mores, Norms, and Givens Parade.
We don’t have to march in lockstep anymore. People are becoming persons, not masses. This is fun. But difficulties arise after the stride is broken. When the band breaks up it can leave the tubas to be turned into beer bongs; the fellow with the bass drum sitting on the curb playing the solo from “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida”; the trombonist using his slide to goose the cornet player; and nobody left who can spell “glockenspiel.” Meanwhile, the elite drum major is just some dork standing in the middle of the street wearing a goofy hat and waving a stick.”