I've just been reading in my latest New Yorker (delivered uncharacteristically on time) an article about a very interesting man who I've never heard of. Not only is he very interesting, but he was apparently relatively famous at one very historical period of time, which makes matters even worse.
Not that I read the New Yorker or magazines like it to find out about very interesting people I've never heard of - I have just about as much trouble as I can handle forgetting about the very interesting people I have already heard of. I like reading magazines for the shock of the old: I enjoy meeting the familiar and the unoriginal. I find it thought-provoking (but then again, I find tying up my garbage in plastic bags thought-provoking, too.) But I don't get offended when they introduce me to new very interesting unheard of people, since I can always forget them at my leisure afterwards.
Anyway, I was reading this piece about this interesting unheard of man, and wondering why I was being told all this, and eventually it hit me - what was really bothering me about this article was not that it was about an interesting unheard of chap, and not about the fact that I could hardly understand a word of what he had wrote - but the fact that the author began by assuming that I wanted to find out about this fellow at all. Just like someone unknown had come up to you in the middle of the street and introduced their friend to you.
What bloody cheek!
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