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The following is a return to writing after a long hiatus. One earlier attempt at a return would have involved a long post about TheFappening and a forgotten novel. That project was eventually left by the wayside because it dealt with the on-going, seemingly unending circle of poison on the internet, and the post itself felt like one more continuation of that circle.
Though that post may or may not ever be written, some of its elements will eventually be brought into this one, where poisoned arrows are let fly with recklessness and abandon.
The last time I wrote about Michael Hastings, it was to say that I thought an article of his was a fucking disgrace. It was not idle clickbait malice, or malice carried over from something else, but from a passionate feeling aroused over bad work 1.
The flaws I saw in his last pieces were not the result of bad habits, but the collapse of his best ones, with his relapse in sobriety reflected in the thing he put his life into, which was journalism 2.
The Last Magazine was his last book, and it was very much unfinished, but it haunts me and stays in my memory months after I read it — and this is not, I think, because of the virtue of the unfinished which allows the reader to project whatever they wish on the spaces in-between. Peoria, both an excellent war correspondent and a drug-taking, scatterbrained babblemouth. Or Is It? One of the people I wanted to go on a rant on.