As it happened, I was sketching another post under this title when the most recent communication from Without arrived. (Without what? you ask. Read and decide.) Rather than post it in the previous thread, which is getting worn out, I reproduce it here:Can't Afford Arlington has left a new comment on your post "Je ne regrette rien":
Jane Barcroft is nothing more than a small but important part of the Arlington Elite's successful effort to gentrify Arlington, starting with attacking anti-gentrification activists and characterizing them as crazies and terrorists.
Here I felt that the year was yielding an awkward surplus of matter for a writer of potboilers, stretching from slapstick to subversive, but what we have here is a surplus of people who regard humble moi as an "important" part of a wicked conspiracy. Is it not delicious? Or… is it even a surplus? I resist temptation, resist it mightily I say, but the desire to quote myself grows more intense with every one of these truculent posts. Has life truly imitated art? I feel as if I have been here before, in a gossamer dream, or in Chapter Seven.
Will someone ever comment on my witty dialogue? Or on the naughty bits?
