Holding court at Saint Elizabeth's, surrounded by cadres of old friends and sycophants pretending to be mad too much time on his hands, in a soft asylum.
Traitor to his country (not his country - his region of origin - long since fled) a pleasant interlude in the shadow of a hangman's noose he threw pretentious picnics with stolen lunatics' bread.
Sheltered from his gray wife and his mistress from always-neglected offspring of the unions while academics, poets, fascist, racists did pilgrimage to venerate his ravings.
An archetype for the modern (no, POST modern) intellectual, destructive (no DE-constructive) who crafts a shield of recondite arcana rococo ornaments for mindless loathing.
Hate your small town roots - rage at the Babbitt at semi-rural morés you never understood contempted - pause and nibble at the apple savoring its superficial knowledge with eyebrow raised - so desperate in impressing an avant guarde that never quite advances.
And die an old child staring in mid-distance at nothingness of permanent adolescence an uncomprehending lapsing into silence in despairing contemplation of an hieratic head.
An occasional turn of phrase that is quite charming in a life-time of pretentious, senseless blather and a selling out your country, friends and family for the adoration of the Europeans.
Such is post-modern life the superficial exaltation of the unchained ego a tasting of an apple that's never half-digested regurgitated in chunks with bile and acid.