Yet all this time I felt an inner anguish I could neither understand nor extinguish. I was surrounded by reporters, male and female, who were younger versions of Bradlee — supersophisticated, very capable people who dropped conversational tidbits about kicking back at the Hamptons and Martha’s Vineyard, who knew all about wines and fabrics and lakes in Italy. They carried cloth handkerchiefs and could distinguish one school tie from another.
This sounds too fucked up. I have a strong feeling, or “knowledge”, that this upper-crust of society doesn’t have any decent purpose to serve in public life. The difference might come when you get the ultra-wealthy who create foundations for peace and see the rest of us as ants. When you’re in that middle ground it seems like your perspective, combined with petty ambition, is absolutely horrible. You look at the podium in front of you at the press conference and see another Yalie who couldn’t be that bad since you went to Yale also and aren’t that bad yourself . . . right? He couldn’t be telling outright lies because you wouldn’t do that and you both have so much in common.
When are we going to start talking about class warfare again? Jesus Christ.