The Corrections

definition—”
    “Per, shut up,” said Mrs. Nygren.
    “Inga!”
    “Waiter, refill.”
    “Imagine the Uzbek upper middle class,” said Dr. Roth. “One of the families had the same Ford Stomper we have. In fact the only difference between our upper middle class and their upper middle class was that none of them, not even the richest family in town, had indoor plumbing.”
    “I am aware,” said Mr. Söderblad, “that as a nonreader I am morally inferior to all Norwegians. I accept this.”
    “Flies like around something four days dead. Bucket of ashes that you sprinkle in the hole. Even the little way you can see down into it is farther than you want to. And a glittering Ford Stomper parked in their driveway. And they’re videotaping us videotaping them.”
    “At the same time, in spite of my disability, I do manage to enjoy a pleasure or two in life.”
    “How empty, though, Stig, our pleasures must be,” said Signe Söderblad, “compared to those of the Nygrens.”
    “Yes, they do seem to experience the deep and lasting pleasures of the mind. At the same time, Signe, this is a very flattering dress you are wearing this morning. Even Mr. Nygren has been admiring this dress, in spite of the deep and lasting pleasures he finds elsewhere.”
    “Per, come along,” said Mrs. Nygren. “We are being insulted.”
    “Stig, did you hear? The Nygrens have been insulted and are leaving us.”
    “It is a great pity. They are such fun to be with.”
    “Our children are all easterners now,” Enid said. “Nobody seems to like the Midwest anymore.”
    “Biding my time here, fella,” said a familiar voice.
    “The cashier at the Du Pont executive dining room was an Uzbek girl. I’ve probably seen Uzbeks at the IKEA store in Plymouth Meeting. These aren’t extraterrestrials we’re talking about. Uzbeks wear bifocals. They fly on planes.”
    “We’re stopping in Philadelphia on the way home so we can eat at her new restaurant. It’s called the Generator?”
    “Enid, my gosh, that’s her place? Ted and I were there two weeks ago.”
    “It’s a small world,” Enid said.
    “We had a terrific dinner. Really memorably good.”
    “So in effect we’ve spent six thousand dollars to be reminded of what a pit toilet smells like.”
    “I’ll never forget it,” Alfred said.
    “And are grateful for that pit toilet! In terms of the actual benefits of foreign travel. In terms of what TV and books can’t give you. In terms of what you can only experience firsthand. Take away the pit toilet and we’d feel like we’d wasted six thousand dollars.”
    “Shall we go rot our brains on the Sun Deck?”
    “Oh, Stig, let’s. I am intellectually exhausted.”
    “Thank God for poverty. Thank God for driving on the left side of the road. Thank God for Babel. Thank God for strange voltages and oddly shaped plugs.” Dr. Roth lowered his glasses and peered over them, observing the Swedish exodus. “I note in passing that every dress that woman owns is designed for quick removal.”
    “I’ve never seen Ted so eager to get to breakfast,” Sylvia said. “And lunch. And dinner.”
    “Stunning northern scenery,” Roth said. “Isn’t that what we’re here for?”
    Alfred lowered his eyes uncomfortably. A little fishbone of prudery was stuck in Enid’s throat as well. “Do you think he really has an eye problem?” she managed to say.
    “His eye is excellent in at least one respect.”
    “Ted, though, stop.”
    “That the Swedish bombshell is a stale cliché is itself a stale cliché.”
    “Please stop.”
    The retired vice president of Compliance pushed his glasses back up his nose and turned to Alfred. “I wonder if we’re depressed because there’s no frontier anymore. Because we can’t pretend anymore there’s a place no one’s been. I wonder if aggregate depression is on the rise, worldwide.”
    “I feel so wonderful this morning. Slept so well.”
    “Lab rats become listless in overcrowded conditions.”
    “You do, Enid, seem transformed. Just tell me this isn’t related to that doctor on the ‘D’ Deck. I hear stories.”
    “Stories?”
    “The so-called cyber frontier,” said Dr. Roth, “but where’s the wilderness?”
    “A drug called Aslan,” Sylvia said.
    “Aslan?”
    “The so-called space frontier,” said Dr. Roth, “but I like this earth. It’s a good planet. There’s a scarcity of atmospheric cyanide, sulfuric acid, ammonia. Which is a boast by no means every planet