2. Despite the skinny ties, rivers of booze, slightly-less-fat-January Joneses, and big houses in Connecticut–everyone one is deeply, irreparably unhappy. Life is so short as to be practically theoretical, and the wisdom of age that is supposed to ease the predations of body only serves to make one fact clearer: absolutely everything is meaningless.
3. That’s what all the lovingly re-created sets and outfits and haircuts and suits and art and cars and booze and Linoleum and Magnavoxes and computers and sleek furniture and tacky furniture and endless plumes of smoke are supposed to tell us: This isn’t a nostalgic reverie. Our sense of being in the present, at the height of social, political, or cultural advancement is a fraud that allows us to live with ourselves (just barely), to wake up every day and light a smoke without anything ever really changing.
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