The Death of Culture: How Lies Killed Books

A Visit to Hipster Brooklyn

I recently came home from a visit to Hipster Brooklyn.

I had found that Brooklyn — alongside literary Manhattan — was oddly frozen in an amber of denial and silence.

First, there is that restored state of freedom, that no one will discuss.

I’d wandered the cute little boîtes and trendy underground hand-pulled-noodle postmodern food courts, with mixed emotions.

There were the chic young moms with babies in strollers, both of them breathing freely in the chill just-before-Spring air. There were slouching Millennials, with every demographic likelihood of having been mask-y and COVID-culty, now enjoying their freedom to assemble at will, to flirt and to window-shop, to stroll and to chat and to try on new sweaters in person at Uniqlo.

Many of these folks, no doubt, would have been repelled from 2020 to the present, by people like my brothers and sisters in arms, and by me; as we struggled in the trenches of the liberty movement.