Saturday, March 05, 2005

Another Spin of the Random Excerpt Wheel

Ben Hecht on the appeal of Teddy Roosevelt:
The second time I cheered for Teddy, I cheered the words he spoke. It seemed to me I would never hear finer words said by a man, and, perhaps, I have not.

There was no historic stage wait this time. Some five thousand men and women sat in silence in the Milwaukee auditorium. They had come to hear Teddy Roosevelt speak, but it was doubtful whether they would.

On his arrival in Milwaukee that forenoon, Teddy had been shot by a would-be assassin. The bullet had plowed into his midriff. He had been taken, bleeding, to the hospital. Surgeons had cut him open and probed for the bullet and been unable to find it.

We in the audience were uncertain whether we would see and hear our Teddy or listen to a bulletin announcing his death. At ten o’clock a group of men came out on the stage. They were escorting a pale-faced, walrus-mustached figure to the speaker’s stand. It was Teddy.

Surgical bandages wrapped the thick torso under its short cut-away coat. Teddy’s voice was fainter and squeakier than I had ever heard it. He held up his hand for silence this time and we gave him the auditorium instantly. He looked as if he might topple over, if we kept him standing too long.

I have never checked my memory of his speech against the records of that night, so I do not vouch for its literal accuracy. However, these are the words I remember.

“Friends and fellow Americans,” said the walrus mustache grinning at us. “I was shot this morning and the doctors haven’t yet removed the bullet from my insides. They are going to operate on me when I get back to the hospital. I came here to tell you one thing. I want you to know that whatever happens to me, I have had a hell of a good time on this earth, for which I am grateful alike to my God, my friends and my enemies.”

Long after Teddy’s ambulance had clanged back to the hospital with him in it, we were still on our feet cheering.

And why was I full of hoorays for Teddy Roosevelt? Why did I respond so worshipfully to his exuberance? Was I admiring myself in a large gaudy mirror; applauding the quality that was at the bottom of my own character?

I doubt this easy answer. There is a life force in hero worship beyond personal psychology, a sort of racial optimism that keeps the human tribe from drifting into psychic defeat and melancholy.

….It is the cry of despair the hero denies for us. He is no mad man reeling and without a goal. He is no structure without foundation. He is no soul overcome by the confusion and dreariness of living. What we see of him glittering in the spotlight is a winner, a human who has met destiny and pinned its shoulders to the mat, a happy man.

Such was my relation to the popeyed hero of San Juan Hill, of Doubtful Rivers, forgotten causes and tattered political phrases. I rejoiced to see in high office not a
sage or statesman but a happy man always ready to enjoy himself swinging the world by the tail.

--From Child of the Century

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