One sees geniuses and masterpieces in the making in precisely the same manner. It matters little that geniuses and masterpieces are themselves built in entirely incongruous ways. What matters is that culture has its fulgurations of good taste; never mind that this good taste is considered such precisely by those intellectuals, advertisers, educators and commodifiers who consider themselves lightening rods to the energies swirling about them that they, at once, do not understand, take for granted and, curiously, offer up such praise that one would be tempted to mistake their enthusiasm for a perpetuation of the very ghost they mistake for culture. They sit in half circles reintroducing beloved novelists, poets and thinkers with brand new ideological makeup, gently guiding people toward the narrative of their truth committees, stripping each work, thought and deed of its grit and grease, wiping away the blood and sweat. Unpalatable anachronisms are blended and cooked down to nice, warm, homey stew. In a culture that values immediacy over craft, craft itself is mistaken for genius, and there is nothing a lightning rod likes better than the largest gesture, the biggest, loudest current. If there is one thing we love more than a genius, it's one who can point us toward a genius so we don't have to burden ourselves with acquiring the tools we need to find them ourselves.