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Last updated on March 6th, 2018 at 12:30 am
British novelist Martin Amis worried big time about nuclear war 20 years ago:
Suppose I survive. Suppose my eyes aren’t pouring down my face, suppose I am untouched by the hurricane of secondary missiles that all mortar, metal and glass has abruptly become: Suppose all this. I shall be obliged (and it’s the last thing I feel like doing) to retrace that long mile home, through the firestorm, the remains of the thousands-miles-an-hour winds, the warped atoms, the groveling dead. Then—God willing, if I still have the strength, and, of course, if they are still alive—I must find my wife and children and I must kill them.
As Mark Steyn points out, Martin isn’t nearly so concerned about molten eyeballs these days. Possibly he should be.
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