Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere

This (gift link) is a fascinating and melancholy article about conspicuous consumption in the age of the Internet:

That Mr. Miller’s death occurred in the Hamptons during the height of the social season almost certainly has added to the intrigue, said Neil J. Young, a historian who is writing a book about the Hamptons. Here, the only thing as fascinating as opulent wealth is its sudden disintegration.

“This place is predicated, for a certain set, on showing off,” Dr. Young said. “It’s the homes one has, the things one does out here — from the restaurants to the workouts to the parties. But it’s a place where one can get overextended really quickly, where a house of cards can suddenly collapse.”

A chasm separated the Millers’ shimmering public lives and painful private reality. But their fall is also a source of very real grief — a story about trying to have it all, and what happens when you cannot.

Miller’s wife appears to have known essentially nothing about her husband’s money other than how to spend it (and, as it turned out, much much more), in the pursuit of what the article calls an Instagram-perfect life.

In reading this story, I was struck by the extent to which, financially and socially speaking, the biggest difference between Brandon Miller and another faux tycoon of New York real estate is that Donald Trump inherited vastly more wealth, which gave him several more decades’ worth of time to create his financial fantasy world, which will no doubt come crashing down some day as well, when the debts finally come due.

I was also struck by how social media have created opportunities for conspicuous consumption that Thorstein Veblen and J.K. Galbraith could have barely imagined.

“Well, goodbye.”

We shook hands and I started away. Just before I reached the hedge I remembered something and turned around.

“They’re a rotten crowd,” I shouted across the lawn. “You’re worth the whole damn bunch put together.”

I’ve always been glad I said that. It was the only compliment I ever gave him, because I disapproved of him from beginning to end. First he nodded politely, and then his face broke into that radiant and understanding smile, as if we’d been in ecstatic cahoots on that fact all the time. His gorgeous pink rag of a suit made a bright spot of colour against the white steps, and I thought of the night when I first came to his ancestral home, three months before. The lawn and drive had been crowded with the faces of those who guessed at his corruption—and he had stood on those steps, concealing his incorruptible dream, as he waved them goodbye.

I thanked him for his hospitality. We were always thanking him for that—I and the others.