I received yesterday a
packet of letters, news clippings, and photos, all about me. They’re more
flattering than compromising, nonetheless I feel demeaned, violated.
There’s no return address, but the front label’s handwriting is
distinctive, even familiar, and so I go to a graphology expert who, after examining it, says the handwriting looks just like mine. “Absurd,” I
reply, even after shown the near-identical loops, slants, lines. “And
not a forgery, either,” he continues, “though the packet’s contents
probably are.” “Sir, you’re the fraud,” I exclaim. “Perhaps,” he sighs,
removing his eyepiece, “we both are.”