what produces misplaced nostalgia

What Produces Misplaced Nostalgia

I am a lecturer in literature, not English literature, mind you, but

glamorizing work I knew he hated. There was nothing worse than

her own reaction, how quickly her fury had risen. Downstairs,

an aging man who begins sentences with ‘When we were her age'

had work to go to, and she earned more than he did, in case he had

shiny pink lips like a woman’s. I wonder if either man has a daughter

to look towards somewhere else, eternally convinced that real lives

would have recited excruciating story after excruciating story if

stunned to find himself believing in things he did not think he ever

could find, then driving here tonight, as if he too had a stake in the

stretcher, grief-stricken, trying to stay as near to her son as possible.