And the anxiety of perched consciousness that here we are living in another, of an order of months: watching again the admittedly decent adaptation of The Wings of the Dove, with its big-screen filling in, vulgately opaque, of the contours of James's every last floating it "swaying a little aloft as one of the objects in her poised basket"—as from Milly Theale's perch in the Alps—while the days honeyed in pricelessness at the end of gilding melt, prone in programming to pop mortally as the years of splendid daigomi, trash lacking only remote control in some central Japan of the 90s Englished in optimism: and the optimism of reassurance that what is priceless can be cobbled, together, of the bubble which errs from every marble guarantee of the eternal.