inside the scliool.rnI wisli 1 could sav tliat overturning Roern’. Wcide is the answer to tlie abortion tragedv.rnBut no law can civilize the hearts ofrnpeople in tiny farming hamlets such asrnPoplar Orove, let alone the more degenerate,rnlarger urban centers. No law canrnmake up for parents who marinate theirrnchildren in our sex-drenched popularrnculture or refuse to shun their daughterrnwhen she decides to shack up with herrnbovfricnd. Laws cannot counter the influencernof 15 ears of indoctrination inrnthe degenerate public schools of America’srnheartland —especially those withrnhigh test scores, low crime, and smallrnclass sizes, which make sure they “leavernno child behind” when it comes to destrovingrntheir souls.rnAlthough Kelli Move will probablyrnemerge from her cell in a year, AngelicarnFaith will remain consigned to thernground imtil die Last Day. May thosernwho value her menion,’ set their face likerna flint against the cidture, making surernthe’ sharpen the arrows in their ownrnquiers first.rnAaron D. Wolf is the assistant editor ofrnC’hronicles.rnLetter From Venicernby Andrei NavrozovrnThe Pavlovian SandwichrnGiovanni and I were both in Milan forrndie da’, and he asked me to join him forrnlunch at Bice with a friend of his, I .aurenrnBacall. ‘The expensive restaurant wasrnc[uite cnipt’, we drank a good bit, and thernconersation ranged from the actress’s fa-rn()rite New Yorker cartoon to the particularsrnof life in Venice. Ihcu obliquely, inrna stage whisper (for the most part insidernm own mildly alcoholized brain), itrnwent on to the mercurial ways of glamourrnand mone, and this was what I continuedrnto tliink about after we’d said ourrngoodbcs, all the way back to VenicernSanta Lucia. ‘I’he father rabbit, seeing offrnhis son at the station, hands him a smallrnpackage, saving: “Your mother wanted yournto have this for luck. It’s her foot.” Thatrnwas the cartoon.rnAs for life in Venice, we got onto diernsid^ject when Miss Bacall drcamiK recalledrnthe finger sandwiches that used tornbe served on airplanes in the old days,rnwhen transcontinental air travel began tornedge out the railways. We quickK’ establishedrnthat the nearest thing going todayrnis the tramezzino, and at diat point MissrnBacall —I do not chide her, ifs just thernway people diink-added, blithely, “atrnHarry’s Bar.” Now, the trudi is that therntramezzino is as fundamentally Venetianrnas pizza is Neapolitan, widi the consequencernthat every bar in town makes arnsandwich at least as amazing as what is onrnoffer at die Cipriani establishment—andrnfor one tenth of the price. The tuna-andtomatornat die Rosa Salva in Canipo S.rnLuca, for instance, is a minor masterpiecerndiat stems from the same creativernsource as die comedy of Carlo Coldonirnand die music of Benedetto Marcello.rn”NO-O-O!?” said Miss Bacall, as if I hadrnjust told her diat money grows on tiees inrnCjioxanni’s garden on die Giudecca.rnAs I sav, it’s just the way pef)ple think.rnA person has certain clusters of associationsrnin his head, and much of what hernsees — even when he sees it widi his ver’rnown eves-tends to cling like wet snow torndiis or that existing nucleus, radier thanrnconglobe afresh, spontaneousK andrncapriciously. It is as though there is arnsnowman of sensibilities being made insidernthe brain, complete with coals forrnc} cs and a carrot nose, and the more onernwitnesses and experiences, the bigger thernsnowman gets, widiout ever changing itsrnrecognizable contours. So in Miss Bacall’srncase, for example, die glamour of arnflight to Los Angeles, in die da’s of herrnvourii, adheres more easily to the waiters’rnjackets and starched tableclodis at Harry’srnBar than to die greater Venice of unwashedrntourist masses and the cheaprncafes diat presumably cater to them.rnConsider the notion wdiicli I amrntempted to regard in political terms: freshrnorange juice. (If flic idea of a great fivecentrncigar, or a chicken in evcrv pot, orrnScotch whiskey on every secret-policernchiefs table can gain acceptance as a politicalrnsymbol, I fail to see wliv mv examplernshould seem frivolous.) Italv is diernonly place in the world where asking for of fresh orange juice—at any restaurantrnor bar, anywhere in Italy, at aii- timernof day—incaiis being given what has justrnbeen squeezed into the glass with therncontractual aim of filling it, at room temperature,rnwith the juice of fresh oranges.rnIn England or die United States, b’ contrast,rnthis notion —encompassing dioughrnit does a technologically uncomplicatedrnprocess, squeezing, and a videl}’ availablerncomniodit’, oranges —belongs torndie billionaire world of private jets, of terracesrnoverlooking the ocean, of butlers,rnmistresses, and scandalous love triangles.rnYet even the Hello! anibiaiic:e is no guarantee.rnAn American billionaire I oncernstayed with in Beverly Hills, in a housernpoised above the cascading tiers of a vastrnorange grove, drank orange juice madernfrom frozen concentrate.rnThe point is that, in Italw people dornnot think less of the luxuries that cost litrie.rnAlistair McAlpine, an acquaintancernof mine in Venice who has amassedrnworld-class collccfions of ever}thing fromrnantique beads to farm machinery, oncerntold me that, while the tiger cowrie iiiolluskrnhas the most beautiful shell in thernworld, it is the far-less-splendid shell ofrnthe Cypraea moneta that circulated as arncurrency among the primitive peoplesrnof flic Pacific. Imagine selling a magnificentrnspecimen of the Cypraea tigris forrna handful of those dull cow rie shells, orrnswapping a bag of oranges for a can ofrnconcentrate, or gold for paper! Howrnparadoxical; and yet, knowing that thernper’ersit)’ of man is onK’ matched by hisrncrednlit)’, how utterly plausible.rnIt seems to me that, so long as the Italiansrncontinue to treat luxury as a specimenrnin a vast and serious collection illustratingrnthe morphological dixersih’ of life,rndiey will not be overrun b’ nione as oflierrnnations have been. Because moneyrnnot onlv is not die key, it is often a barrierrnto luxury; witness the stor’ of an Italianrnfriend who went to sta at the Cala dirnVolpe in Sardinia, now owned by anrnAmerican hotel chain and catering tornthose wdio, as die shrewd Arabic sayingrngoes, “do not know the taste of theirrnmouth.” In flie sumptuously appointedrnlobby, tiiere is a long bar, dotted here andrnthere with cash registers. These emit arndistinctive whirring sound when operatedrn(which they ucarK’ alwas are), andrnfliis sound, my friend averred, is as quick-rn1} rooted in the hotel guest’s consciousnessrnas Pavlov’s bell is in the salivation ofrnthe experimental dog.rn”I want a drink” —”Here vou are,rnsir”-PFRRRR, $49.50-“I walit a boatrnfor die day”—”The boat is waiting, sir” —rnPFRRRRRR, $6,905.00-“I want arnwoman for the evening”-“Eccocf qua,rnSignore, la bella Svef/c/nc//”-PFRRRRR,rn$3,999.95 —and so on, until checkoutrntime. On his first night in his room, asrnFEBRUARY 20()1/i9rnrnrn