In 1861, October, Karl Marx took the
British papers to task. Their
reporting on the Rebellion in America was
shoddy, he claimed, internally inconsistent, and
missed the point almost entirely.
Marx would be that guy,
the one in the front of the class, taking
notes. He'd understand what
was going on, but whenever he explained
eyes would glaze over. He'd raise his
hand, and wonder quietly why no one
ever invited him out for coffee
after, why the mutters and shuffling of paper
followed each brave and (frankly)
reasonable request that the world realign itself.
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