Cartooneconomics Strikes Again
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on
First there was the venerable Professor David Harvey, whose 2011 speech to the Royal Society of the Arts explained the current world recession/depression with that quick-on-the-draw animation.
Then U.S. profit of doom Porter
And now it's the turn of Irish economist and wise guy, David McWilliams, who has just come out with his latest web site / book / TV show, Punk Economics, surely a very late-in-the-day attempt to follow in the paths of the Freakonomics guys. Cue moving finger:
It's worth quoting the rest of the lines about the Moving Finger, which are taken from the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám, in the controversial translation by Edward Fitzgerald:
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit,
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
But helpless pieces in the game He plays,
Upon this chequer-board of Nights and Days,
He hither and thither moves, and checks ... and slays,
Then one by one, back in the Closet lays.
And there's more:
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted - "Open then the Door!
You know how little time we have to stay,
And once departed, may return no more."
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou,
Beside me singing in the Wilderness,
And oh, Wilderness is Paradise enow.
If chance supplied a loaf of white bread,
Two casks of wine and a leg of mutton,
In the corner of a garden with a tulip-cheeked girl,
There'd be enjoyment no Sultan could outdo.
Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint, and heard great Argument
About it and about: but evermore
Came out of the same Door as in I went.
With them the Seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with my own hand labour'd it to grow:
And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd -
"I came like Water, and like Wind I go."
Into this Universe, and why not knowing,
Nor whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing:
And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
I know not whither, willy-nilly blowing.
And that inverted Bowl we call The Sky,
Whereunder crawling coop't we live and die,
Lift not thy hands to It for help - for It
Rolls impotently on as Thou or I.