Class, or a book urging the beating to death of baby whales using the dead bodies of baby seals

Fusty, Paul was not, though he also was not apologetic. He said the dropping of the bomb was not a mistake, or at least not a moral abortion, and he thanked god for it, as one who would have fought and maybe died if the war had not ended.

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He knew from war. Knew from history too. Irony as the great 20th century mnemonic device. He also knew proles and nouveaux, the signs and sizzle that we bring to a differentiating game.

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What I remember most clearly is the middle-middle bathroom (or was it lower-middle?) - with carpeted interior and upholstery on the toilet seat. Which is to say I don’t remember much very clearly, even what I remember most clearly. But it still hits, this ever more granular way in which we hierarchize and slice and offer up sacrifices to the status gods.

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Happily, I can report that my acquaintances who choose to come out as “wealthy” by splurging on sports cars have not choked on blood-filled lungs or sprained the anomie of the spleen and I have not confused cloying envy and ego hurt with the aesthetic distance of reproach.

And how even when you talk about painting. Pictures. Portraits. Art objects. Aesthetic currency. The whole shebang. You are talking to in groups, showing status, peacocking.

All so the words used to slay inner and outer demons may (in our delusional but not disillusioned heart of hearts) still be held at a remove and outside.