Fevered History

March 2020, New York City We are the lamb;a virus is the lion I am writing this in a time of plague, while looking with unaccustomed enthusiasm to a day when I might restore what I have come to regard as my normal neurotic equilibrium Ordinarily, any neglect of the various routines I have devised to defend myself against the quotidian grime of urban life occasions uneasiness;now, it summons up a kind of dread Hell is other people, and (here's no guarantee that everyone else is playing by the same rules Psychological resistance to the new reality of global pandemic has been strong in certain quarters, far stronger than immunological resistance: college students determined not to be robbed of their spring break;shoppers desperate for urtisanal kefir who until a few days ago were still congesting the Union Square Greenmarket;certain of my military colleagues, seized by what T think of as the cult of the "magic uniform," which they believe somehow exempts them from conditions affecting all the rest of us