Your trench coat, your chinos, your Father’s Day necktie—your closet overflows with gear that was originally worn by stout patriots, fearful conscripts, and paid killers. But this warcore thing is new.

I told him my dislike of all men—of him—of matrimony—still he persisted. I used him with tyranny—led, indeed, partly by my temper, partly by design; hoping thereby to get rid of him; till the poor man (his character unexceptionably uniform) still persisting, made himself a merit with me by his patience.

The shapes here are dense and collective, the babushkaed dancers riding the pulse that motivates the music and anchors Zoltan Kodaly’s score.

This led him inevitably to the current pile of poo he now found himself in.