Things Worth Fighting For: Collected Writings by Michael Kelly, Penguin Press, 448 pages, $26.95
MICHAEL Kelly chose to go to war a second time, and it killed him. This book tells you why he went.
It makes you care, too, and even think, while teaching you a thing or two and entertaining you to boot. Those are the main tasks of a reporter and a columnist, two rackets Kelly mastered.
The arrangement shows off his range and his depth, gathering short and long pieces into five sections. Four are Kelly’s-eye views of different slices of reality: American life, politics, war, family. The fifth, we’ll get to.
The pieces hold up quite well years later. Democrats now complaining about how the Bush White House echoes Richard Nixon’s (and Republicans denying it) might review “Master of the Game,” which centers on David Gergen and the Nixonization of the presidency itself – cynicism institutionalized not just in all subsequent White Houses, but within the press corps, too.
Which is powerfully echoed in another long article, “The Road to Paranoia,” in which Kelly visits with the Militia of Montana in the wake of the Oklahoma City bombing. Deftly, he not only shows us how a normal man can drift into political lunacy, but also reminds us just how far lunatic charges have become routine in mainstream politics. (Hel-lo, Sen. Kennedy.)
The biggest part of the man is the smallest part of the book: “Family Wealth.” These few pieces are a glimpse at the writer’s happy, loving core. Here you’ll find my favorite Kelly column, the one that came crushing to mind when I learned of his death: “Back to You, Tom” – an ode to the running commentary of his 21/2-year-old on all the marvelously fascinating events of a 21/2-year-old’s life. Parents often go on about their kids; Michael Kelly turned his joy to art.
Elsewhere, he sees other men’s children dying of dysentery in a camp packed with refugees from Saddam’s ’91 attacks on “his” people. In another spot, he’s stoned – not so it hurt, except in the sadness of it – by some Gaza 6-year-olds imitating the bigger boys.
His overseas reporting – from the first Gulf War, from Bosnia and from Gaza – casts a stark light on all the posturing and squabbling of domestic politics.
It also taught him a vital lesson: Anti-war is not pro-peace. He drives the point home in “Immorality on the March,” on the worldwide February 2003 anti-Iraq-war marches – a fully engaged argument with just the proper dash of contempt for these smug emperors of moral hauteur, so snug in their new clothes.
In bits and in accumulation, Kelly’s essence shines through: a compulsive talent for slashing at hypocrisy; a rich passion for honesty, decency, normalcy; a humorous appreciation of incongruity.
Which explains why he just could not let the remarkable antics of William Jefferson Clinton pass without fairly scathing and very regular comment. Those writings are represented in “The Age of Clinton,” that other section – the book’s most pleasant surprise.
Do you remember “scandal fatigue”? After a while, it was all a blur. Mustering the enthusiasm even to read masterful, witty criticism of it all became a struggle. And for a while, it seemed like Bill Clinton was all Mike Kelly wrote about – one great talent wasting it on how another great talent was wasting it.
The surprise here is that these pieces age very well. Perhaps the distance is the key; perhaps the echoes mentioned above just sharpen Kelly’s voice here.
E-mail: cunningham@nypost.com