Yes, if we were down there, if we were the damned of the American cities, we would not fail.

Morality, intelligence, values-we want those things measured and counted. We want the high ground we want our own worth to be acknowledged. We know ourselves, we believe in ourselves from what we value most, we grant ourselves the illusion that it's not chance in circumstance, that opportunity itself isn't the defining issue. It's a reckoning of another kind, perhaps, and one that becomes a possibility only through the arrogance and certainty that so easily accompanies a well-planned and well-tended life. And if, after a time, we can glimpse the spectacle of the corner and manage nothing beyond loathing and contempt, then we've arrived at last at that naked place where a man finally sees the sense in stretching razor wire and building barracks and directing cattle cars into the compound. Pale-skinned hillbillies and hard-faced yos, toothless white trash and gold-front gangsters-when we can glide on and feel only fear, we're well on the way. Parasites, criminals, dope fiends, dope peddlers, whores-when we can ride past them at Fayette and Monroe, car doors locked, our field of vision cautiously restricted to the road ahead, then the long journey into darkness is underway. “That's the myth of it, the required lie that allows us to render our judgments.

Born place: in Berkeley, California, The United States

Envy by Anna Godbersen