In order to exist rationally, Pnin had taught himself…never to remember Mira Belochkin – not because…the evocation of a youthful love affair, banal and brief, threatened his peace of mind…but because, if one were quite sincere with oneself, no conscience, and hence no consciousness, could be expected to subsist in a world where such things as Mira’s death were possible. One had to forget – because one could not live with the thought that this graceful, fragile, tender young woman with those eyes, that smile, those gardens and snows in the background, had been brought in a cattle car and killed by an injection of phenol into the heart, into the gentle heart one had heard beating under one’s lips in the dusk of the past.”
― Vladimir Nabokov, Pnin

It became less of a spectral ambition of handful of low uneducated men once George W. Bush was successfully installed in the White House against reason, custom, and law- white trash atavism had already sprung bloody and bone munching from the realtor and rentier classes, demanding a a payoff for being shot directly out of an ass into the proper suit of skin.

Prior to that it was possible to dream we’d come to our senses; that the Republicans calling for violence in the streets in the event Florida’s votes were counted were just hapless victims of dietary deficiencies, struggling to make sense of a world where they couldn’t bone their sister, or gather on a warm night for a ritual pogrom. We had no idea how far the rot had progressed.

W opened the floodgates for every inbred supposition, every puerile dream of the morally illiterate. And the journalists licked his balls for his troubles.