A well-to-do editor of a major literary magazine – the sort that not only has a storied history but has capitalized so well on its storied history that, despite its increasing tendency towards an outdated or even sometimes geriatric style and its employment of terms like avant-garde, still possesses the literary gravitas to sneer down its sharp nose at other magazines and journals with pastel-colored covers and titles in a sans-serifed lowercase that publish avant-garde stories – comes home and sees the flatness of his wife's gray-green eyes and swallows dryly, with some effort, as his heart wheezes, begging to be unburdened.

            This editor was under considerable stress at the stalwart...

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