The fact is, almost any Monday morning on a rail platform will put one in mind of Celia and Trevor, hounded by Rachmaninov from the peace of sweet retreat to the empty chores assigned to them by whistles screeching over gasps of steam. If there's anything at all about that movie which portrayed the railslave's anomie more perfectly than its sound effects, I confess it could only be the wit of Coward or Lean, to let us say so.
But we know how prosaic things really are, beneath it all, in the tea service in contemporary terminals. For this reason they are likelier to raise hope among only our newer rebels, of going someplace happier.
Yet there is gladder news of Monday than was suggested in our "lead," that journalistic whistle which persuaded Louise to respect Jack Reed in Reds. The New York Review is running a Summer sale on Mr Wilson's To the Finland Station. Seldom has the exile's ticket back home been so affordable. Possibly, more than the natural illustrations of the place, these references are a tableau of horrors for a brownshirt Republican's extirpation; and so, wishing not to nourish them rudely, we go to press today with the becomingest concealment of gluteal offense. Her famous migraine loves a spur, for the Minnesotan's rage; and Lawrence v. Texas bears revival, as an Alamo.
To isolate these dissonant sound effects, would only intensify them, in Bachmann and Perry's staging of Patrick Buchanan's Kulturkampf. We come as we are to the electoral station, and queue to board a train whose destination no one's ticket can control, or even designate.
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