The hordes of lit-bloggers and other demi-puppets lavishly eulogizing Susan Sontag are chaining themselves to a sinking literary establishment.
It's like the character handcuffed to a stateroom in the "Titanic" movie. Right now the ship is only listing in the water a bit. "I say!" a billionaire (attendee of the National Book Awards) remarks on the noticeable angle of the floating palace. "I rather wonder if this is something about which we might peremptorily be concerned?" Rick Moody, Jonathan Franzen and friends cluelessly play with pieces of ice on deck.
The angle of list becomes greater. Could it go down in a hurry, stray aristocrats wonder? One can be certain that when it does, they-- the elite-- will grab the available lifeboats, while the hordes of demi-puppets in steerage, others handcuffed to rooms in second-class, will go down with the ship.