Both kinds of malcontents fail to see the irony of their arguments because they cannot recognize their own retreats from or into themselves as escapes. There is a romantic notion that there is a perfect form of engaging with the world that will elevate a mortal life above a series of brief distractions along a tedious journey dictated by faceless forces. The master commuter recognizes life as dust, and procures the least taxing means of avoiding that truth.
