Not to be outdone by all the harebrained flirtations with disaster of prior months, September, like a lousy drunk, had no qualms whatsoever about strutting away and screwing every catastrophe in sight.

After all is said and done, all lives and loves and losses accounted for and nothing ever quite adding up, what else is there to say? Yes, Mr. Vollman: “I take my meaning where I can find it; when I can’t find it, I invent it. And when I do that, I deny meaninglessness, and when I do that, I am lying to myself.”

And still there are words. What else is there.