I am marveling at a diminutive man in his early sixties who is sitting a few rows away from me in the train. His sparse, frizzy hair sticks out every which way. He looks rather like a mangy circus dog in a poorly cut suit and a flashy tie. Desperately shortsighted, he brings everything he reads right up to his nose. “Looks are deceptive,” I muse to myself idly. “He may even be an interesting man,” I conclude, feeling magnanimous. Then he brings two books to his nose in quick succession: the first is Beaudlaire: Oeuvres Completes, and the second Laclos: Oeuvres Completes.