Andrew L. Wilson holds a G.E.D. from Memphis Adult Education Center, a B.A. in English literature from the University of Tennessee and a Ph.D. in English literature from Boston College. He has worked as a busboy, dishwasher, waiter, cook, bartender, dogwalker, lottery ticket seller, consigliere, art mover and installer, house repairs contractor, bookstore clerk, office temp, book appraiser, office manager, teacher, proofreader, manuscript consultant, writer, journalist, and editor. His fiction, essays and poetry have appeared in small literary magazines in the United States, Europe, and Japan, blah, blah, blah ...
So says his extremely unimpressive bio, appended to this extremely revolting story that he's published at (no surprise) The Palestine Chronicle. It's all about how Ariel Sharon dies of a heart attack and is reincarnated as a palestinian arab, who then, of course . . ., well, if you have a strong stomach, read it for yourself:
But what if Ariel Sharon were not to die--what does that word mean, die, it's imprecise and it yields no image and does not satisfy the yearning part of the mind, not to mention the body--but instead of dying were to leave the train in a surge of anxiety and a rush like the wings of a descending angel (I am thinking here of the angel that streaks down from Heaven like a flaming arrow towards the tent-sleeping Constantine in Piero della Francesca's fresco-cycle "The Legend of the True Cross") and if his soul, Ariel Sharon's pitying lost human scorched terror-faced soul, were to find itself translated, like a flash of wonderment, into the womb of a young woman in Bethlehem who happens to be (why not?) a Palestinian Arab.
And what if, about nine months later, this same young woman were to bleed to death in the agony of giving birth, because her taxi has not been permitted to pass through an Israeli checkpoint on the only road to the hospital--and what if the baby, a boy, were to survive his mother's death only to die himself, ironically but quite plausibly, at the age of ten-and-a-half rushing down a Bethlehem street away from soldiers firing from beside a tank into a crowd of stone-throwers?
Oh, that's not the end. Naturally, the boy realizes at the last (graphically narrated) moment who he "really" is and is filled with disgust. By the time you've reached that part (long before, actually), you can definitely identify.
So far, it seems this trash has been linked by Counterpunch and not much else. I'm reluctant to link it myself, let alone quote from it, but here it is. Make of it what you will.
