That was why it seemed surprising that I would meet the author on such relaxed terms. We had no formal ties, nothing that bound our careers. I doubted that he had even read my work. I’d admired him for nearly two decades, since the days when I first wanted to become a novelist, though my admiration of writers was not what it used to be—that is to say, all-consuming. I now allowed myself to see the weaknesses in their books—the clumsy moments, the unbelievable plots—rather than convincing myself that these were signs of a genius that was at a remove from me. It was like this for the author’s work as well. In my youth, I had thought of his books as exemplary, perfectly shaped; I no longer found that to be the case. Especially his recent works. I could easily identify their defects, which I noted fondly, as if they were signs of age, of a body softening, becoming round.