Now what seems to have to be imagined, or could not be taking place, is a tireless reënactment of the last presidential election. One of the leading offenders continues to envision triumph sullied only by bad histories; and the other, bad histories refuted by de facto triumph. This is, of course, what one would call, bad enough, as discourse to bring into the new year. Yet here, and possibly to your little muse, it isn't all.
Oh, my, no. Possibly you also receive anonymous junk mail diatribes from one or the other, and equally possibly both of the principal two sides to that interesting outcome, on the theme of your own blame for it. This is not Sterne country, it's pure Lewis Carrroll - or rather, as pure as that inventor might have been, on his milder days. I've mastered the temptation to experience guilt for that election, but considering how little thrill could be derived from it, I might have reveled in my allocation of guilt already, without even noticing. Were one to be blamed for one's history or for the loser's sour experience, would the flavor be the same, or could it vary with the filter of the plaintiff?
The opening of an entire other year,
on the one hand, and all this revi-sionism of old events, on the other,
would almost call into question the
right of 2018 to be called new. But
we have read our Laurence Sterne e-
nough to settle for a history buff
we have, and banish snarks for con-
fusing their dismay with any talent,
against our Uncle Toby's to a mews.
Jack Hurrell x Lucas Fonseca
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