““he— the fatal lodestar—sinks his rapier into the ground, reclines on a four-poster bed of crinoline and trash, remembers the fidelity of man, his honorific native tongue, humbly requests a glass of water. It is the last glass of water in the world. The fly merely circulates. I could die here, not unhappily, but won’t;— the world will continue, panoptic, bread will be baked, the children will sleep fast. It is the first day of the last day. The low tide moans its applause””
