Brooks, in this asinine column, asks, "Finally there are the rest of us who don't pay attention to what is being written and said in Europe because it doesn't seem that exciting, (Quick, what book is the talk of Berlin? Who is the François Truffaut of our moment?)"
You don't know, Dave, because the movies don't get distributed here, the books translated and published. A young Bellow would not be picked up and nurtured, and he'd end up - as pretty much the only alternative for someone who was at all interested in the, "best that has been thought and said," - among, "those in the academic and literary stratosphere who are part of the global circuit of conferences and academic appointments." They know, of course, what's being read in Berlin (or Asia, or anywhere else outside of these precious borders, guarded by Minutemen) and they know the movies that will be re-made, here at the top, where it's lonely, for domestic consumption, planed smooth to go down easy.
What utter, empty triumphalist bullshit.