While vacationing in Norway, I visited the impossibly sweet and eclectic local museum in Stavanger yesterday.
It isn’t dedicated to anything in particular. An exhibit on old-timey toy-making lives side by side with a modern-art installation in which suspended animal skulls are overlaid with projected footage of human talking heads. A room that presents the, um, in and outs of human reproduction — complete with a bigger-than-lifesize fiberglass human womb that kids can crawl into — is only yards from a space that features a Japanese warrior costume, assorted taxidermied birds of prey, a bronze cast of a manta-ray, and a pair of ancient Chinese slippers.
It was all completely random — and completely charming.
And something occurred to me.
There’s such gentle passion and celebration behind it all. In fact, museums as a category are all about progress, accomplishment, and the human spirit. Contrast that with the wretched culture that produces terrorist pond scum such as the three attackers who butchered civilians on and near London Bridge on Saturday night.
It produces nothing of value. It feebly, laughably spits on progress and accomplishment. It offers nothing to teach, nothing to share, and nothing to recommend it. It knows only cruelty and white-hot ululating anger. Its adherents and their miserable death cult will never participate in anything resembling invention, creativity, or innovation.
They will live out their days in darkness, while the rest of us continue to design, to build, to educate, to share, and to love. We will commemorate the best among us in lovely museums that will never contain a bust or a painting either made by or depicting a single jihadist.
They live in ignorance, die in infamy, then fade forever into oblivion.
It’s a fitting fate.