The Veblenesque orgy of the estate sale

So, the Didion estate sale was this week. It was, according to New York magazine (actually in two different sections, natch), the Paris Review, the LA Times, hell even the fecking Guardian, a somewhat astonishing frenzy-blend of hagiography, money, envy, and feminism.

Did I bid on something? Yes. Was I prepared to pay even a fraction of what that thing ultimately went for? Yes, a fraction (approximately 1/5, as it happens). Should I have known better than to bid on an estate sale held by a professional New York auction house? Absolutely fucking yes.

Ah well. I will have content myself with writing a short note on an index card and appending same to the back of a blue and white plate that currently hangs upon the wall of our family house in Tahoe, stating precisely the rather absurd sum of money an identical copy went for at this particular estate sale. I’m pretty sure — like 95% sure — that my grandmother paid maybe 1/100, but honestly more probably 1/1000 or even 1/5000 of what Joan’s plate went for.

Published by A garrett renter on Welbeck St.

An online diarist, because writing longhand just seems so tiring.

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