It’s an absurdly vast house, among the largest in Manhattan, but the dining room is windowless, creating a hermetic or stop-time sense, broken only by the household help ferrying in time-of-day-appropriate foods and beverages. In sweatshirt, draw-string pants, palm beach slippers, and half glasses, Jeffrey Epstein sits at the head of the table. He spends most of his day in the dining room, remote from the world, in front of a lap top and beside a row of reading glasses (there are a lot of them in case, apparently, he misplaces a pair, but being quite meticulous he never does) advising, or instructing, a startling collection of the rich and powerful, slotted in on an hourly basis. The apartness of Epstein’s dining room might seem to offer some buffer in this leveled, angry age for a super rich man who attends to even more fabulously rich men (and the occasional fabulously rich women). On the other hand, with the paparazzi often posted near by, the outside world seem dangerously close too. (Once I arrived for a visit and found several police cars blocking the street and thought the worst—they’d come for Jeffrey. But it was a security detail for a controversial head of state, also visiting him.) His subject for the morning is “hyper wealth.” His subject is always wealth—how capital should react to the given global political, economic, and cultural moment. The otherwise baronial dining room is disturbed by an ever-present white board, on which he scribbles calculations and notes, conducting perhaps the world’s most rarified economics class, often to many of the world’s finance ministers and foremost economists. Epstein’s apartness or parallel life reflects much of the other-worldly characteristics of the wealth revolution that began in the late 1970s and that continued through the Wall Street boom of the 80s, the tech boom of the 90s—surviving, to often bitter attack, the banking crisis—and that has now seen the emergence of the international bi