Emily Witt's diary entry in the latest issue of the LRB has left me seeking a handy label for articles that effectively say 'Aldous Huxley's dystopia is here now', but in which the author affects an innocence of all such critique by mimicking the unknowing, sensation-seeking obsessions of a naif in an Aldous Huxley dystopia.
I'm sure there's more to Burning Man, but Witt makes it sound like a Pleasure Dome for millionaires.
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