I'm finishing up Philip Armstrong's What Animals Mean in the Fiction of Modernity and am eager to begin re-reading a classic—Upton Sinclair's The Jungle. I haven't read this in a very long time because, frankly, it's too disturbing to visit frequently. Yet, it has haunted me throughout the years, rearing its ugly head from time-to-time due to passages like this:
Jurgis recollected how, when he had first come to Packingtown, he had stood and watched the hog-killing, and thought how cruel and savage it was, and come away congratulating himself that he was not a hog; now his new acquaintance showed him that a hog was just what he had been—one of the packers' hogs. What they wanted from a hog was all the profits that could be got out of him; and that was what they wanted from the workingman, and also that was what they wanted from the public. What the hog thought of it, and what he suffered, were not considered; and no more was it with labor, and no more with the purchaser of meat.
Upton Sinclair, The Jungle
Same as it ever was.