Chapter 137: Jonathan Franzen finds fellow freaks and forges fantastic fiction

  I remember getting the knife.     It was near Christmas about 10 years ago and Leslie and I were zipping up a tiny suitcase before a beach trip with her grandparents and extended family. We weren’t married and I was making a desperate last-second plea to stuff a 576-page novel called ‘The Corrections’ by Jonathan Franzen into our bag. “It just won’t fit,” Leslie said. “You have … 100 pages left? Want to leave it and read it when we’re back?”     I did *not* want to do that.     The book was slipping under my skin—serrating my soul.     So I remember getting that knife.     The dee...