The person who is writing this story, twenty years later, considers that Momus’s suggestion was good. If the person who is I in the story had taken it, he—the I of the story—would have been a lot happier, and he might even have begun to resolve some of the apparently intractable confusions and doubts which have determined the disastrous course of his so-called adult life, and which, with an almost delicious fatality have led him back to New Haven, CT, where I am writing this in January, 2011, in an apartment on Orange Street. It’s Sunday afternoon. People are digging out their snow-buried cars. I didn’t take Momus’s advice twenty years ago, but in a strange way you could say that I am taking it now.