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But Durango. The very name hallucinates. Man’s country. Out where the West begins.
“You really missed something, Durango,” they would say, sometimes joking and sometimes not, until it became a refrain, Eden lost.
You see what the world of Michael Laski is: a minor but perilous triumph of being over nothingness.
The center was not holding. It was a country of bankruptcy notices and public-auction announcements and commonplace reports of casual killings and misplaced children and abandoned homes and vandals who misspelled even the four-letter words they scrawled.
Of course the activists—not those whose thinking had become rigid, but those whose approach to revolution was imaginatively anarchic—had long ago grasped the reality which still eluded the press: we were seeing something important. We were seeing the desperate attempt of a handful of pathetically unequipped children to create a community in a social vacuum.
