I was out in the street while being, at the same time, in a secluded space. More than the mahogany panels, the cut-glass decanters, the embroidered upholstery and the capped, white-gloved driver on the other side of the partition, it was this strange paradox of being in private in public that felt so opulent—a feeling that was one with the illusion of suddenly having become untouchable and invulnerable, with the fantasy of being in total control of myself, of others and of the city as a whole.
“In total control of myself, of other and the city as a whole.” This is what Bevel feels, all the fucking time. How he can truly believe he is a “man of destiny.” The fucking privilege of rich white-ass motherfuckers.
