When a famous writer dies, it's hard to quantify its meaning. Unless you knew them personally, studied with them, or waited in line after a reading to shake their hand, exchange pleasantries, and maybe take a selfie, they're not really real to you. Their existence has solely been through their words on a page, read to you in your own voice in your own head. Writers in this way become more you than they are themselves out in the real world. They take on this ethereal, omnipres

Summer came and went. It was hot, humid, busy and mundane, so mostly like any other time of year except with higher expectations and less...

God sets things straight on who and when to tip.

On Don Quixote's lack of narrative authority and what that means for the reader.