Tonight is foggy, sluggish, on my rocky outcropping of the Earth. It is dark here. The sun is going down on Southern California, where mundane horror is again unfolding for some reason which will be the topic of politicized arguments for days, until the next massacre of unarmed innocents makes the next screaming headline.
I happened again just now upon a telling tale – one of the greats in the English language – which seems to sum up this mood in a succinct 15 minutes.
Saki died some years after writing this, gunned down in a trench in France. For what it’s worth.