Picture this: you meet Merrill at a party, right? And because it’s Merrill, you meet him at a rooftop villa in Greece, and it’s dusk, and you’re eating grape leaves and drinking red wine. Merrill is sparklingly witty. Well-traveled. Urbane. He tells a wonderful story about an evening at the opera, another about a Parisian art dealer, and a third about an Egyptian (oh, how exotic) imam who runs the Cairo Backgammon Society. Eventually it’s him and you at a railing overlooking the town. You get to talking. You talk. He leaves to make nice with other people as they leave. And you get the sense - gentle, sinking, but the definite sense - that Merrill thinks that he’s done a great generosity by deigning to talk to you for twenty minutes and no one could ever be as smart, good-looking, or cultured as he is. It doesn’t make you feel good. You wish you hadn’t realized it. But now you have...