Descent of the Species
That same 1954 when America was on top of the world, when a man could support his family on one salary alone, when our demographic was 90% white and mostly civilized, when drug use was the habit of a few jazz musicians in NYC and almost no one else, when women wanted to be women and weren't trying to play badmitten on a tennis court, when black people had not yet been thrown into an unwinable economic competition with white people and their crime rate was only two or three times as lofty as that of Caucasians? When a fair number of their children had an identifiable father and immigration was restricted to people who could have a reasonable expectation of adopting western values, when we had Faulkner and Hemingway instead of the banality of chick lit and preening lady authors who know how to toe the p.c. party line, when we were the most admired people on earth instead of the most detested, when our schools actually conveyed knowledge instead of approved platitudes, when our most emminent newspaper hadn't yet overdosed on anti-white agitprop, when someone like our extraordinarily sophisticated Ms. Dowd would have been seen for what she is - a person who had rather have a kidney replacement than to miss a Woody Allen film?
Better to have one day of life in 1954 than immortality in the world of The New York Times.