The VN turbidity in a teacup: a false distracting "event," hollow and plump with poshlust. Be sure of one thing: Wherever, or whatever that proud and scornful spirit is, whether keeping "sane in spiral types of space" rreclining by limpid lakes "full of a dreamy sky" or talking "with Socrates and Proust in cypress walks," he is, in any sphere one may imagine, wholly indifferent if not totally ignorant of these trivial matters, including his literary reputation, or lack thereof’; promises made, or promises broken; the dear dead, or the tear-streaked cheeks of the living. Now, here, is the place for such trivial pursuits; and whereas I can imagine him joining the fray with avid delight in his prime (say, around the time he lowered the boom on Wilson’s bald pate), in this here, in this now–no. Not a squeak from the hereafter. "Go back to your graves," he might be heard to growl, as he turned his back on us.

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