Don't send me the '80s paperback edition of "A Gift of Magic" with Nancy's face emerging from a red-tinged cloud. I'm not ready

I don't believe in God, but I do believe in used book vendors. Once or twice every few years, when I'm wondering if I'm on the wrong path in my life, I wander over to their tables and ask them (the tables, not the vendors) for a sign.

The last time I did this, right as I wandered into the vastly fiscally unremunerative but intellectually and philosophically satisfying life of a funny ha-ha cultural critic, I found the edition of "The Arabian Nights" for which I'd written flap copy in my first ...