I’ve often wondered where cities begin and where they end. The polarities imply natural magnetism, direct currents in confluence with circuitry and the cathodes of memory. History seems marginalized by the only print people seem to read nowadays- restaurant menus. Tiger prawns, Kurobuta pork, Hackleback caviars- the lexicon of privilege, the scholarly diodes of culinary vibrancy. Deconstructionism is a matter of salad forks and steak knives, says my blind date, who’s also performing a phenomenological analysis on the culmination of sautéed recipes. She tells me her dream is to quadruple her weight so she can document her corpulence for an internet show. I ask her if she’d like to venture to a buffet after the meal, and her eyes glimmer in affirmation. I can almost see the thought bubbles above her- if only she’d grasp the poetry of grenobloise and rainbow trout, she’d emerge from irrelevancy into the palms of epiphany- or is that obesity?
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A Passage to India
E.M. Forster