Henry reads Anika Jade Levy’s Flat Earth and Grace Byron’s Herculine.

All of this can’t help but instill in me the feeling that these are not books but book-shaped discourse objects, meant to appear on a shelf to display your allegiance to one or another subcultural tribe, and that I’ve been played for a sucker by thinking they might have something to tell me. It makes me feel like the one inhabitant of a Potemkin village, trying to find the post office and wondering why the grocery store is never open.