The war came to Dorothea Agnew as a great shock, a sudden tidal surge of reality. In spite of herself she had begun to think of the business in the Gulf as a kind of relief. It reminded people of a larger world beyond the university, the city, and even the Commonwealth of Tara -- which took some of the heat off her own case.
But now it had all come literally home, right into her living room. She and Veronica Runbird knelt like little kids too close to the screen, listening to all those grave male voices and trying, between the two of them, to feel their way toward sense.
So much of it seemed contrived, spectacular. She kept telling herself it was only a movie, except it seemed to be another David Lynch film, a cinema of angst and delusion. The night was full of unfunny jokes. She was seeing a report on military intelligence delivered by a bearded tough guy named "Wolf Blitzer." What did it mean? Had there been a coup de tube by the World Wrestling Federation? Would the cameras cut now to Atlanta to show Hulk Hogan at the anchor desk?