My Fictional Life

From a Lileks' Bleat of last week:

If this had been a Peter DeVries novel or Cheever story, someone – usually a failed but charming intellectual becalmed in the suburbs – would be canoodling with someone else’s wife in the kitchen, who responded to the classical allusions floating on the seducers winey breath with a sharp mocking retort that would end in a brisk cynical coupling seventy pages later.

I'd love to be a character in that book.