One of the most emotionally grueling moments in a life of watching movies occurs at the end of Bruce Robinson’s brilliant comedy, WITHNAIL AND I. Marboe (I, played by Paul McGann) realizes Withnail, for all his passion and wit, is only going to drink himself to death sooner or later. Marboe cuts his hair ( it’s 1968) before a promising audition—it’s possible he’s going to make it, and packs his suitcase from the escapist lost weekend he’s sharing with Withnail. As he presses his clothes down each hand pushes down on a Penguin Classic. Maybe NORTHANGER ABBEY and MIDDLEMARCH, maybe BLEAK HOUSE and GOODBYE TO ALL OF THAT—I have a composition notebook covered in the possibilities that correspond to my quasi-Victorian idea of English survival.

Ideally the left hand would pack FRANKENSTEIN, (1818) and the right,FRANKENSTEIN (1831). We disdain the excess of a third act in the American life at the sake of the precious second—where we do most of our living.