He’s noticed that the heft of money makes the bodies of the wealthy more dense, more boldly angled and thus threatening, even when suited, dressed, coated — and wrapped in the soundlessness of their immense, padded, and luxuriously ventilated office spaces. The rich are underpinned by ignorance, he’s noticed. They know nothing of the authentic scent of dust and dowdiness. They never knew a time when people bought winter tomatoes in little cardboard cartons, four of them lined up beneath a cellophane roof, twenty-nine cents, and how thrifty housewives — like Larry’s mother, for instance — used only half a tomato for the family salad each night, so that the box lasted eight days, just over a week. The rich — except for the self-made rich — believe they’re biting at the apple of life just because they know enough to appreciate pre-Columbian art and handpieced quilts. They’re out of touch, they’re out to lunch, they breath the dead air of their family privilege.
— Carol Shields, Larry’s Party
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