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I so wanted to like this book. It starts with epigraphs from Emily Dickenson and David Graeber. I'm still angry at Graeber's untimely death. May his memory be a blessing. Or a revolution.

This little book sets out to be an exploration of being a person of minor-ish privilege, both racially and economically, in our capitalist world. It turns into noodling on the themes, like jazz. I always vaguely disliked jazz. Fuckin' seventh chords. Drums are meant to be hit, not stirred.

The prose is good. The pages turned. But the wistful anomie made me stabby. There is no revolution here. Maybe there was a little deeper level but I just couldn't get to it.