(Wen Chang, the god of Chinese literature, smiles benevolently on the Chinese workers come to work the railroads; he knows that one must suffer for one’s art).

But as it turns out, this is all just window dressing. The streets may seem carpeted with gold, but there are thorns along the edges. And the dak bungalow at the end of the dusty trail is not a rest house at all, but a trap. The Calvinistic heritage sneaks in; silver and gold may seem unlimited but the milk of human kindness is not, in fact, still-flowing; the economy of scarcity creeps into this land of plenty, and the result is an endless self-purifying ritual, a quasi-punishment which leads to neither catharsis nor relief.

the servant girl develops a cough, the high stepper stumbles and loses his balance, the cattle, no longer able to graze on the grass of Parnassus (yet another literary allusion; this one cruelly ironic, suggesting the Muses have left this increasingly anti-intellectual land, have gone back to Greece. or China. whatever, they’re not here), develop mange. time to hit the panic bar.