If I think too much about all of those Chinese factories where all the stuff in a Wal-Mart is made, I get that woozy feeling you get when you see ducks covered in crude oil.
The piddling ignoramuses who deny that there is a distinct, discernible, objective western tradition are just woozy literati.
For the first time I could remember, I felt weak, woozy and stupid— like a human-being. Like a very small and helpless human-being.