Politics is the art of the possible.
Just as a balloon filled gradually with air bursts when the limit of its tensile strength is passed, there are thresholds of radical, disruptive change in politics. When those thresholds are crossed, the impossible suddenly becomes probable, with revolutionary implications for governments and nations.
One baby is a patient baby, and waits indefinitely until its mother is ready to feed it. The other baby is an impatient baby and cries lustily, screams and kicks and makes everybody unpleasant until it is fed. Well, we know perfectly well which baby is attended to first. That is the whole history of politics.
I would have a poet able bodied, fond of talking, a reader of the newspapers, capable of pity and laughter, informed in economics, appreciative of women, involved in personal relationships, actively interested in politics, susceptible to physical impressions.
In all the poems I’ve written I’ve not really engaged in politics, and when I’ve found myself moving in that direction I’ve always stopped myself.
Neither science, nor the politics in power, nor the mass media, nor business, nor the law nor even the military are in a position to define or control risks rationally.
Should we tolerate debate within feminism’s ranks? Undebatable! But it’s not so simple: women are socialised to avoid conflict; when we do differ, especially on politics and in public, it’s still tediously labelled a ‘catfight.’
Politics are a very unsatisfactory game.
The real goal of politics has to be getting people to act on what they already know was wrong.
I am an Anglo-Catholic in religion, a classicist in literature and a royalist in politics.