I come upon a blog, not a year old, only half a dozen entries, talking of places I know with a foul-mouthed anger inspired by the affair that the writer’s wife is having while the writer stays home with the kids. Do I know these people? He attacks his wife’s character and then asks us to empathize with his flawed one (some mental illness, perhaps?) which we do, because the writing is very good. Names are named. Details given. I determine the identity of the anonymous blogger. A true shock, my impression so different from this aggressively intelligent and angry writer. How many different selves we each are, and here, the most manipulative and intimate, the literary self, whispering lines onto paper that whisper to a reader, images that enrapture our emotions. The caressing bodies. The rising action. The falling action. The denouement.