You walk into a bookstore and instantly you are accosted by the bestsellers. You haven't even unbuttoned your coat. You haven't even—tossed your scarf over your shoulder in that way that announces, No, gentle bookstore staffers, no. No help needed here, this mild-mannered toreador is—just browsing! You haven't even walked through the front door, and there they are—the bestsellers, in their ten-tiered rack. Reminding you that just because you have entered a Manhattan bookstore does not mean that you have left the company of—people whose taste you cannot trust.

And then—then there is the conundrum of classification. Here are the books on Cooking, and here are the ones on Pets. Alright, I can see the point in keeping those separate. But—here are the books on Art, and here are the ones on Music. What prompts this? Other than the urge to remind musicians that they are not making art?

You think: I want a book that's better than these. More ennobling, and more ticklish, and more overall—furious! I don't want The Jesus Christ Diet, I want a book that contains reasons why I should not repudiate humanity wholesale!

In other words, what you want is—fiction.