Centralia, Pennsylvania has been on fire for fifty years. To be precise, the coal mine under the town is burning, making the ground unstable, occasionally spewing out toxic gases, rendering the town all but uninhabitable. And, of course, very interesting to writers:
Though the number of actual Centralians has dwindled to a handful, the place exudes an undeniable romantic appeal, particularly to writers: our very own American inferno, tucked under the Appalachians.
Centralia is the perfect metaphor. I know Kant says existence is not a predicate, but Centralia seems all the more perfect as a metaphor because it is real.
