Portrait of a Liberal.

whispers, digging her nails into Mr. C.’s sleeve, “to bring me shoes, stockings, things for close to the skin. Anything… I will buy anything.’”

If only Mr. C. had gone to the South Pole and looked at the penguins, I’m sure he would have brought back the shrewdly perverse story his publishers were expecting. But the Russians left him at a loss. He visits their dives and department stores; he plods through their museums, shivers in their cold, even drinks the raspberry soda they serve with dinner. But the whole spectacle is remorselessly dreary. Along with their all-time records for murder and misrepresentation, the Soviets seem tc have set another: never before has such vastly organized corruption been so unesthetically dull.

RO

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Revilo Oliver

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whispers, digging her nails into Mr. C.’s sleeve, “to bring me shoes, stockings, things for close to the skin. Anything… I will buy anything.’”

If only Mr. C. had gone to the South Pole and looked at the penguins, I’m sure he would have brought back the shrewdly perverse story his publishers were expecting. But the Russians left him at a loss. He visits their dives and department stores; he plods through their museums, shivers in their cold, even drinks the raspberry soda they serve with dinner. But the whole spectacle is remorselessly dreary. Along with their all-time records for murder and misrepresentation, the Soviets seem tc have set another: never before has such vastly organized corruption been so unesthetically dull.