Some of you won’t read this column until after Hillary Clinton is elected 45th president of the United States. But I’m writing it before she is, and so it feels like I should offer some summation of these, the longest 83 years of my life, or perhaps a few weighty portents of things to come.
But, really, what’s left to be said? Much less by your wearied scribe. Our misery is so over-determined at this point that the mere continuance of this election seems proof that time is a sadist. I mean, at this point the coffin is more nails than pine. With each new foul discharge from the Republican nominee, my couch feels more and more like Milliway’s — the “restaurant at the end of the universe” in Douglas Adams’s comic sci-fi novel of the same name — where time-traveling diners clever enough to make a reservation after their visit can watch the Big Crunch, over and over, from inside a temporal bubble that rocks back and forth across the end of everything.
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