Introduction

I told myself: “Let them choose themselves. If you remember them, if they’ve been clinging to your back for years, jabbering in your ear, peel them off, throw them into the pot and stir. Ignore the superego. Jettison everything that smacks of variety, balance, reason, and taste.”

I’d misremembered some of these stories. Memory is a two-way street. The stories disfigure you, and then you turn around and disfigure them. There are no hard feelings. Can you spot the three-legged ones?

Nonetheless, and for reasons that mostly elude my understanding, these are some hills I would cheerfully die on.