If we consider 1968 as the apex of the Baby Boomer’s revolutionary spirit, 40 years later many people are still engaged in the shoving contest known as the culture wars over who was right, and more importantly, how we should live our lives.
It is artistic transference, better than anything else that explains the reverence people have towards Wallace’s books. Yet when it comes to my own connection to Wallace, the story is less about his books, and more about my own life and languid drift across America.
“You wish to speak about beauty and the modern world,” Mishima would say while lighting a hand-rolled cigarette. “I wrote about this back in ’59…Surely, Professor Scruton, you’ve read my book?”