I still often feel that when I am read something I'm getting some privileged peek into some better world, a Great Gatsby-like dinner party filled with bon mots and subtle references. It's usually by reading something that the possibility of some higher good overcoming the injustice in the world brings a smile to my face. Reading can be transcendant like that. But then the writer might stumble and snap me into realizing the terrestrial baseness of what they're selling.
As I was driving in dense rush-hour traffic today, I fixed my eyes longly on the middle-aged faces of all the lawyers and doctors and what-haveyous slowly inching past me. A question screamed out: what are you people doing?
