A Hole in the Hole

To elude the modern world, it’s not always enough to have a secret place, a “sanctuary,” so to speak, or even a deep round hole in the cold hard ground. Nor is it always enough to have access to an abandoned well or disused missile silo in order to ward away the sounds of rock and rap, of chainsaws and midday blonde newscasters.

No, very often a person will want even greater secrecy, a “hole in the hole,” as we should call it, a carpeted area about eight feet square where a fellow can squirrel away a package of non-filtered cigarettes along with candles and a literary novel or two. Here, lost in ecstasy, that fellow might dredge up a few old ethnic jokes, indulge in negative thoughts, and allow his facial expression to do as it wants.

(We mention this here as just one of the possible compensations of the examined life.)