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From Thomas Pynchon’s AGAINST THE DAY
 
       Scarsdale Vibe was addressing the Las Animas–Huerfano Delegation ofthe Industrial Defense Alliance (L.A.H.D.I.D.A) gathered in the casino of an exclusive hot-springs resort up near the Continental Di­vide. Enormous windows revealed and framed mountain scenery like picture postcards hand-tinted by a crew brought in from across the sea and all slightly color-blind. The clientele looked to be mostly U.S. white folks, pretty well-off in a flash sort of way—vacationers from back east and beyond, though an observer might be forgiven if he thought he recognized faces from the big hotel bars in Denver, with a few that might've fit in on upper Arapahoe as well.
       The evening was advanced, the ladies had long since retired, and with them any need for euphemism.
       "So of course we use them," Scarsdale well into what by now was his cus­tomary stem-winder, "we harness and sodomize them, photograph their degradation, send them up onto the high iron and down into mines and sew­ers and killing floors, we set them beneath inhuman loads, we harvest from them their muscle and eyesight and health, leaving them in our kindness a few miserable years of broken gleanings. Of course we do. Why not? They are good for little else. How likely are they to grow to their full manhood, be­come educated, engender families, further the culture or the race? We take what we can while we may. Look at them—they carry the mark of their ab­surd fate in plain sight. Their foolish music is about to stop, and it is they who will be caught out, awkwardly, most of them tone-deaf and never to be fully aware, few if any with the sense to leave the game early and seek refuge be­fore it is too late. Perhaps there will not, even by then, be refuge.
       "We will buy it all up," making the expected arm gesture, "all this country.  Money speaks, the land listens, where the Anarchist skulked, where the horse-thief plied his trade, we fishers of Americans will cast our nets of per­fect ten-acre mesh, leveled and varmint-proofed, ready to build on. Where alien muckers and jackers went creeping after their miserable communistic dreams, the good lowland townsfolk will come up by the netful into these hills, clean, industrious, Christian, while we, gazing out over their little vaca­tion bungalows, will dwell in top-dollar palazzos befitting our station, which their mortgage money will be paying to build for us. When the scars of these battles have long faded, and the tailings are covered in bunchgrass and wild­flowers, and the coming of the snows is no longer the year's curse but its promise, awaited eagerly for its influx of moneyed seekers after wintertime recreation, when the shining strands of telpherage have subdued every mountainside, and all is festival and wholesome sport and eugenically-chosen stock, who will be left anymore to remember the jabbering Union scum, the frozen corpses whose names, false in any case, have gone forever unrecorded?  who will care that once men fought as if an eight-hour day, a few coins more at the end of the week, were everything, were worth the mer­ciless wind beneath the shabby roof, the tears freezing on a woman's face worn to dark Indian stupor before its time, the whining of children whose maws were never satisfied, whose future, those who survived, was always to toil for us, to fetch and feed and nurse, to ride the far fences of our proper­ties, to stand watch between us and those who would intrude or question?  Anarchism will pass, its race will degenerate into silence, but money will beget money, grow like the bluebells in the meadow, spread and brighten and gather force, and bring low all before it. It is simple. Itis in­evitable. It has begun."

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