It is possible–really, truly, non-hyperbolically possible–that i will never read a book better than Mirth in my lifetime. Living under modern capitalism is a sickness that produces a “growth at all cost” mindset, and it can be slightly jarring to realize I might have already experienced the peak of reading fiction for pleasure for my entire life. But, again, I don’t think I’m going to win marathons and I still run them, so I think I’ve come to terms with the concept that things don’t have to be perfect to be worth doing; I am pretty sure I’m okay with reading books that place 6135th on the shelf. However, if I had read Mirth in college–if I was the same person then as I am now (I am not), if I knew how to read it in college (I did not)–I would have dedicated my studies to it. Honestly, I am slightly grateful for the travesty of literary education that didn’t lead me to it for forty years.

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