Nostalgia used to be something produced and consumed on an artisanal scale. You could rifle through the attic and stare at glassy-eyed daguerreotypes, or huddle around the fire on a winter evening and let grandpa tell you ‘bout the fine, hardworking folks he fought with at the Second Battle of Bull Run. Once or twice a year a big historical novel or biopic might make you wistful for the days when men were real men, women were real women and children died of scurvy.

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