Thomas De Quincey’s “Confessions of an English Opium Eater” describes a fantasy in which he is involved in some kind of Hindu religious ceremony in which he was the god, he was the priest, he was the sacrifice.
Stop exoticizing the Other, Thomas, you Orientalist Junky you!
How would you like it if there were a drug that made people from other cultures feel like they were in our culture. If they took it they would feel like
“I was the college loan applicant! I was the loan! I was the bank!”
Maybe there is!
If there is it would be mete punishment for De Quincey’s shade to sell it in little envelopes at the edge of town, in the laundry mat, or in the parking lot across the street from the freeway onramp, on a cold winter’s night, when the wind does blow.