Bells ring as I seek direction. Some higher calling. Should I be reading my neighbor, author of a work of transgressive literature? I should, thinks the Narrator. “That and some Kathy Acker,” he told himself several weeks ago, “paired with Susan Sontag’s ‘The Literature of Pornography’ and Georges Bataille’s Story of the Eye.” He imagined that with the addition of some Herbert Marcuse and some Norman O. Brown, combined with Monique Wittig’s Les Guérillères and Helen Hester’s Xenofeminism, he’d have arrived at summer. But what time had in store for him was something else again.