>“Shut up before you make me puke! Maybe you’ve got a pretty house. Sowhat? And maybe you’re not a bad old guy. Smart, and refined, and
everything just right. But smug, man, so sure of your place. So sure that you
fit right in. With everything around you. Like this village of yours, with its
twenty generations of ancestors just like you. Twenty generations without a
conscience, without a heart. What a family tree! And now here you are, the
last, perfect branch. Because you are, you’re perfect. And that’s why I hate
you. That’s why I’m going to bring them here, tomorrow. The grubbiest
ones in the bunch. Here, to your house. You’re nothing to them, you and all
you stand for. Your world doesn’t mean a thing. They won’t even try to
understand it. They’ll be tired, man. Tired and cold. And they’ll build a fire
with your big wooden door. And they’ll crap all over your terrace, and wipe
their hands on your shelves full of books. And they’ll spit out your wine,
and eat with their fingers from all that nice pewter hanging inside on your
wall. Then they’ll squat on their heels and watch your easy chairs go up in
Post too long. Click here to view the full text.