"Wow, that thing has 'Irish satirical novelist' and 'literary critic' written all over it," was the heavily ironic comment of one of my colleagues when I pulled into the office parking lot in my molten-orange Ford F-150 Raptor supertruck. (Not really mine, actually; it's one of the vehicles I'm sent by various test fleets to review.) Of course, my colleague's comment went straight to the heart of the apparent contradiction between art and materialism, a supposed dichotomy that has become so acute that it's safe to assume no member of the "intellectual" class has the slightest idea about or interest in things mechanical or mundane like cars. Part of this may be the result of the concentration of so many of these cognoscenti in Manhattan, where no one except the ultra-rich can afford to own a car–and where I used to live, a car-lover out of his element. Of course, I miss New York, living in Texas, but when my family and I moved here I welcomed being able to hang around used-car lots (yes, that does sound perverse) and to get behind the wheel again. 

A disdain for cars isn't the unique prerogative of the Manhattan brain clique, however. A woman I knew here in Austin once said, on learning of my fondness for the miserable things, "I think the car is the worst invention ever and should be abolished and we should all use public transport." Welcome to Pyongyang, comrade, I said, thereby sacrificing any chance of friendship (slim at best anyway). But most writers I've known take the same attitude. In how many instances is it a pose, I wonder?

Of course, there are writers who love cars: P. J. O'Rourke, for one. Rudyard Kipling was another; he sold Rolls-Royces, and was The Times' first motoring correspondent. Nor is this infatuation restricted to right-wing imperialists like O'Rourke, Kipling, and yours truly: the ranks of carlovers include the more liberal Stephen King and John Updike. 

To each his own, I say. As long as I don't actually run you or your dog over with my Raptor, if owning a Raptor is my rapture, it's no one's business but mine. And you can feel free to sneer all you like. As Voltaire said, often misquoted (letter to M. LeRiche, February 6, 1770): "Monsieur l'abbe, I detest what you write, but I would give my life to make it possible for you to continue to write." 

Voltaire would have loved the Raptor. It's Rousseau who would have been against it.