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"Republican Living Rooms"
I have known the Republican living rooms, spacious, the oversize furniture, overstuffed linen floral, the big mahogany coffee-tables heavy as map tables in some war room, the huge clawed feet piercing the deep wall-to-wall, the table-lamps large and brutal, their tall, shot-silk shades shedding a bright gold haze the light of the rich, the high ceilings, the strange spaces between the chairs and couches after most of the guests have gone. Those who remain are drunk, so they take up more space, their thick financial auras expanding in the quiet. All is suspended in the 14-carat blaze of the lamps turned up so high. It takes a while to notice there is something going on near the doorway into the well-appointed dining room— some kind of tussle. On the carpet, the host is kneeling on the throat of a woman, her face streaked with blood. His cheeks are glazed with sweat and happiness. When she dies he glitters with excitement, his life makes sense. He has a brief moment, before anyone comes close, of perfect bliss—he has finally founds something he really likes, something he can do for fun. Best of all, it costs absolutely nothing.
—Sharon Olds
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