What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images . . .
—T.S. Eliot, “The Burial of the Dead,”
The Waste Land
The body of the hapless American missionary John Chau has been abandoned to the North Sentinelese. By the lights of the Indian government and the leaders of the Western world, the savages may do with it as they please. A trespasser, he was not worthy of forgiveness, or even of Rousseau’s famous pity, for his ultimate trespass was to threaten the amour de soi of an unspoiled, “uncontacted” people. And that, my friends, is a crime against humanity; the oldest crime against humanity, according to Rousseau, the Muhammad of the West.
The First Pillar of Postmodernity is this: There is one god, Ourself, and Rousseau is his prophet. Our elites follow his sayings virtually without question, the hadith of the man who explained to us the...