The review

And suddenly catching myself
that the confusion of a century ago doesn't feel like drama.
And they were all spirituals.
Well, former civil servant Herman knew of the coming war when one wasn't over.
And he lamented his potentially brilliant career
On the ruins of the world.
And why is that so funny now?
It's funny to you? Really?

Well, they were exceptionally harmed by public morality.
In the battle against it, they broke all their weapons.
And spent all their energy trying to decide
whether I'm the same as everyone else or not.
And potentially brilliant public officials turned to writing,
To sell their surplus education, of course.
And their fascination with mysticism, oddly enough, helped them.
The stamp of time is a burned stigma.
It stays on the hide even when the cow's been eaten.

And I don't see anyone worrying much
about what happened two hundred years ago.
I've never heard that before.
But Freud's jaw, take note,
The protagonist is the son of a widow.
Zeus-Adam must have been killed by one of his children.
I listened to the review while it was being written.
Well, he wrote it on himself. Centennial's coming up.
I'm just a stenographer here. One hundred characters is a cigarette.

The confusion is the same as a hundred years ago, two hundred years ago, and now it's the same.
Perhaps we should look at the drama of the events of
in a possibly distant retrospect.
Sometimes you get it backwards.
A book that anyone who knows will understand.

I just somehow didn't read it.
Well, because it won't be published for another hundred years.
That's a hundred years ago to you.
You think I'm psychic or something?
Live in the present, somnambulists,
drama was all over the neighboring hill yesterday.

A seal on your forehead-- what kind of arrogance is that?
I'm told no one's supposed to have insignia.
100, 300, oddly all in multiples of ten.
Who even thinks that.
Yeah, well, it's the same as it was back in '28.
Ridiculous.
Yes, the portrait of the beautiful Beatrice was painted by an artist,
only that artist's name was Cubist Picasso.
You just get him.
Yeah, okay, you owe me four cigarettes.