A friend posted on social media a letter F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote while quarantined in the South of France during the Spanish influenza outbreak in 1918. He spoke of empty streets, Hemingway's cavalier response, and the recommendations to gather a month's worth of supplies. (He and Zelda stocked up on "red wine, whiskey, rum, vermouth, absinthe, white wine, sherry, gin, and lord, if we need it, brandy.")
Every time I read a post with the phrase “end of the world” I wish our knowledge of history were even half as great as our sense of self-importance.
