A

s things stand, I am unsure whether I can prevent myself fading into the subfusc of literary oblivion. A strange compulsion to pen a parody of 1960s Swedish erotica under a pseudonym has flitted for far too long across my unkempt mind. Whenever this urge rises within me—like the inevitable bloat following a platter of salt-saturated grease with lardish nibbles—I repair to a corner and hoot into a sock until the rationality of the morning returns me to a tolerable state. From there, I can potter across the linoleum in my kimono and tell myself that everything’s going to work out for somebody else, pending a thorough review.