first act, as a chef de cabinet in the 1914 Union Sacrée government, was to betray the Socialists' solemn pre-war promise not to participate in the mutual slaughter of the Great War."

—Dylan Riley, "Tony Judt: A Cooler Look,"
a critical, posthumous survey of Mr. Judt's work as a historian and polemicist following his death at 62 from complications of amyotrophic lateral sclerosis,

New Left Review 71 (Sept/Oct 2011)

Freud arranging his orangutans at the kite-making shop near the glass-blowing house.
In the 3rd century they would've said to you,
"The virus growing in your heart holds no agency,"
and by "agency" they meant a form of debt.
Today they simply say, "Don't cry.
Bear down. Undress."
And if your safe-word, my friend, is "he only eats hummus," then I guess
we're the same. So I guess we're the same so check us out:
—First nebulization of the light brigade.
—First susurration of the discothèque.
—First genuflection of the cataract.
And I will feel your fugue and you will touch my mouth.

For I have that taste of vomit in my mouth
I had as a child. That pharmacological flavor,
and do not suffer for me for it, I like it enough,
for almost nothing happened in my childhood.
It was like walking from one lantern in the street
to the next and not frightening the nightingales on either.
It was like dragging a balloon on a string into the ocean,
deeper and deeper, while father, near the beach,
cooks something with wine in its glaze, but less rich and sweet.
I felt like your cold shoulder, unsafe and indifferent, World.
I could've failed you, you know, I could've been
bleak and ridiculous.
I could've been written in piss like Linear B.
I could've been Glyphipterix metronoma—
could've lit your life up
like a gentrified rabbit,
you kind and gentle loafer.
This was the taste of vomit—
cherry was its faculty and revolver was its savor—