It happens at every reading. so I’ve begun to think of it as The Question.

Indeed, the predictability of The Question is such that I’ve not only given it its own moniker, I’ve made a game of trying to guess where it will come from: Will it be the vaguely familiar, distinguished looking woman at the back, intelligence apparent not only in her gaze but in the set of her lips (a writer, I suspect, but who…)?

Or will it be that bearded, middle-aged man in an oxford button-down shirt (one of many in...