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“I’ve told you that the usual story is bullshit. That it goes: Paleolithic ignorance, then”—he clapped his hands—“Neolithic Revolution! Then you give it a few more thousands of years and—poof!—you’ve got writing. And now finally the party begins.”

The impossible new science they were all there to advance, that field that shaded from morphology to speculative biology to quantum physics to fulminology, thence to mythography and ontology, sometimes even fucking theology.

Diana Ahuja had dutifully read Sontag; she had a Tom of Finland coffee-table book; she’d shaken her stuff to the Village People now and then: it was hardly a revelation to her that the machismo of the military was camp.

“I return, and I kill and kill and kill again, and eventually I die again, and the whole merry-go-round continues. So please tell me, Herr Doktor,” he said to me, “what sort of man am I?”