When propped up in bed with an improving book, I often find myself sans pencil, and thus unable to scribble my knowing glosses next to passages of interest. Wandering over to the desk is out of the question, and so I resort to denting the margins of the i.b. with my thumbnail. As a consequence, I have developed a protuberance at nail's edge so well-suited to this practice that I have chosen not to file it away, in order for it to be passed on to future generations, a boon to their supine scholarship. Like Alan Blair, the depressed but somehow cheering hero of Jonathan Ames's... More >>>