People spread their lyrical wax, unabated, without making the connections between the tiniest ant and the mightiest ocean. We can't afford eggs and milk, but what does that have to do with $700 billion right into the pockets of the wealthy?
That sort of incestuous recycling of capital is doomed to collapse. The rich cannot fund themselves, because their wealth is stolen from the pockets of the unwashed hordes. What they have does not belong to them, and yet they pretend to it like guilty children. I'm sick of today, so I'll drown my sorrows in yesterday. When the setting is unfamiliar, the words ring true. The glasses of hindsight focus equally well our fictional creations, but woe unto the reader who draws parallels between Sinclair, Lawrence, or Twain and our own world.
What hasn't changed is infinitely more fascinating than what has, wouldn't you say?
Life is nothing but a study of itself.
I need to reread this whole book, but this chapter is a great one. I know this is a long shot, but there's a quote somewhere in the novel about the peasants being the noblest, most selfless people of all because they literally toil all day for their overlords and get nothing in return. Anyone know where that is?