In the waning hours of the Nixon
government - an antic crime wave
which, for all its faults, was
effectual enough to be called an
administration - there was an un-
forgettable sound of the gears'
failure to synchronize, the hard-
er the President might shove his
hell-bent lever of power. The din
was of near-simultaneous shavings
away of brittle shards of scrap,
a euphoria of humiliation, resig-
nation, incarceration predicated,
altercation simulated from pathos.
He named it, twisting in the wind.
Écoutez . .
It might take two years, but the
noise will neither abate nor be
superseded, until all is junked.
Too bad? What if he'd succeeded?
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