you've been one for years now: reporting on the doings
of your compatriots condemned to selling their labor as
though it were some sort of shopworn, unwanted merchandise:
bearing on their shoulders the weight of all the sudden
accumulation of capital: underground workers laying
the foundations for the mushrooming suburban housing
developments: or on the doings of nouveaux-riches
bourgeois suffering from Antonioni-like neuroses, presumably
liberated, but deep down still pompous, self-satisfied,
impermeable: all the flies of Tangier would not suffice to
blot them out, and yourself along with them, their chronicler,
their professional observer, their photographer: with
your mind still reeling from the shock you push the little
door open and enter the shadowy corridor, lit only by a
dim, niggardly skylight