In 1955, we were told that this was fiction.
.
But it had already become what’s called real.
The New Yorker, September 24, 1949
Look at Studebaker’s wardrobe for 1949, think of the then new jet plane acting a new role in the unchanging plot of dream, and you’ll understand that Studebaker wasn’t at all the first walk-on to carry a bag of props. What’s called an event is only one of infinitely many acts already staged in the past tense. Regardless of wardrobe, the last act every night everywhere is the one that darkens all the universe into background for a marquee.
And the marquee’s only words, always, are the three that glow Lasciate ogne speranza.









