Night of the Living Dead Books

A Saturday night of intellectual debauchery—flipping through People magazine issues and simultaneously conducting an ongoing multichannel search for bearable moments in a host of uncolorized old movies, while munching on a large bag of chips and two bags full of microwave popcorn—washed down by a gallon of new generation cola. The last‐minute peanut‐butter‐and‐jelly sandwich is definitely a major mistake. Thoroughly sick to the stomach, I dizzily stumble into bed. After tossing restlessly into a fitful sleep, I somehow find myself stranded on a desert isle, a beautiful green hump of earth in the midst of a sparkling sea. It does not take long to explore the length and breadth of the island—no people are about, and not even a pet in sight unless I can housebreak the members of a rather ugly species of large iguana. There are some small finches high up in the trees that make a pleasant peep but could never be trained to parrot human speech. What to do for intellectual companionship?