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354 pages, Paperback
Published October 2, 2018
Across the whole of the American continent the talk of money is never quiet. Twenty-four hours a day it seeps through walls and shouts on the floors of the exchanges, whispers in darkened bedrooms and clatters in all-night restaurants, pleads and wheedles through telephone lines, takes up most of the space in the media, screams across kitchen tables, gloats in the windows of Madison Avenue and Rodeo Drive, drifts through bus stations and convention halls, worries in elevators, makes crazy the would-be artists in the gloom of the avant-garde.
Failing a war, revolution or economic collapse, interests align themselves with the inertia of money. The difficulty does not lend itself to economic tinkering. Efforts at the redistribution of wealth invariably lead to the same injustices under different letter heads, and except in times of war or illness, moral awakening is as hard to come by as a winning number in the New Jersey lottery. It is not a question of taxes, interest rates, tariffs, investment policy or monetary reform. It is the prior question of an attitude toward money that is synonymous with religious devotion.
Americans worry about money's deportment because not only do we believe one's money is one's self but we also believe that an American is by definition always and forever innocent. The Puritans arriving in Massachusetts Bay thought they had regained the states of innocence lost to Satan by generations of corrupt and inattentive Europeans. Their heirs and assigns still hold to that presumption. Foreigners commit crimes against humanity. Americans make well-intentioned mistakes. Foreigners incite wars, manufacture cocaine, sponsor terrorists and welcome Communism. Americans cleanse the world of its impurities.
The abyss looms on all sides—in the trees beyond the croquet lawn, in the tall grass behind the hedge, in the bar downstairs from the grand ballroom, across the street under the treacherous neon light. Their awareness of the abyss makes them fearful of shadows. Dependent upon a magic they don't know how to replenish, they feel themselves threatened by enemies of infinite number: thieves, journalists, tax agents, blackmailers, debauched women, unscrupulous grocers Third World dictators, terrorists, Communists and populist sentiment in Detroit. They remain certain that nobody would help them in their distress, that nowhere in the bleak waste of the universe could they find any human hand willing to stay their fall into ruin and disgrace. Thus they huddle together like alarmed cattle in the enclaves of Fifth Avenue or Palm Beach or Beverly Hills—"wherever is," in F. Scott Fitzgerald's phrase, "that people go and are rich together."