We’ll get back to where we was, I promise, but flash forward a couple of days and too much to contain, explain or detain. I’m in a Castle in Newport where Senator Whitehouse was born. It has become clear– considering the connection of the 1974 Robert Redford movie, filmed in and around the mansions of the city– that the defining narrative of this trip is Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. We have long been within the imaginary confines of West Egg, old sport, but now we’re acting out the novel’s climax– five jerks in a drawing room. But there’s no argumentation, no great reveal and no hearts broken, though as someone is trying to kiss me, I have to point out that she’d been making out my friend 2 minutes earlier.
And then, as always, there’s this:
