The origin of the people’s resentment of elites was the establishment of monotheism. Before then the gods belonged to the people. There were no intermediaries like bishops or priests, no one to pass down laws.

Some jazz piano was playing and I identified it as Thelonious Monk. He played a characteristically heavy-handed, off-kilter note: donk. “Monk’s playing is funny, but in a good way,” I remarked to no one in particular—or maybe someone was there, or I imagined they were there. Then I said, “Also funny in a bad way. But funny in a good way, too.” 

We got together to play like we usually do but we were seated around a dining table. I was trying so hard to remember this one tune I’d learned that I was going to play that night. It was a fun tune, interesting, somewhat unexpected; those were the contours of it in my mind but I could not grasp the title. Someone laid out a huge pile of blow. “Whitey,” I stated, remembering what those California people called it. Lines were cut and a fussy little strip of paper, not quite wide enough to roll into a proper straw, was passed around. There was sugar everywhere, too, mixed up with the coke. As I got ready to do mine I wondered if it was OK if I snorted all this sugar. Was it bad for you? For the delicate tissues of the nose and sinus? I still couldn’t remember what the song was but I remembered it after I woke up, a song I planned to play in real life: Sultans of Swing.