Tossing off a stitch of creepy times.
I tend to think of modern politics as a combination that builds to the desire for its own conclusion:
Liberty, equality, fraternity, vasectomy.
Literary life has a streaky bacon style when each character is perfect at not being anyone else. Stephanie Delacour is the personification of an author who is bound to be plagued by everything. Julia Kristeva does not have to limit herself to autobiographical material to pick up the rude joy of the teasing cries of birds known as laughing gulls.
One of the characters, Sebastian Chrest-Jones, a scholar of mixed populations at the Institute of Migratory History, personifies mocking derision. As a scholar, Sebastian Chrest-Jones considers committing a crime "the height of bad taste" (p. 12), but when his charming laboratory colleague Fa Chang, who has only been his mistress for a few months, discloses that she will have a baby, his rage strangled her, put her body in a car, pushed the car over a cliff, so:
The car bobbed and spun over
a few times before sinking
into the deep water of Big
Stony Brook Pond. (p. 15).
People who have thousands of years between their days and a cumulative fatigue from an active forty-eight hours that did not allow him to sleep are in no mood for the kind of surprise that is likely to produce an obligation to nurture or support another human being for the next few decades, even if the announcement is:
Of course,
you are under no obligation.
I know how important your freedom is to you.
But it's important that you know,
and I prefer telling you on this very day,
such an important day for you,
for both of us,
even though it concerns only me
in a certain sense.
So, guess what?
I'm going to have a baby!
Isn't that fabulous? (p. 14).