On the master list I maintain of all the books I one day intend to read, Walker Percy's The Moviegoer has always had a place. When I glimpsed it last week in the surprisingly well-stocked kiosk of reading material in Boston's South Station, however, it struck me in a new way. I was looking for a novel to pass the time on a train ride to visit my sister, and something about this one's size, design, and prior reputation seemed to fit the occasion just right. Is it time? I asked the book. Is it your turn?
I turned it over and read on the back cover that the novel's protagonist is twenty-nine years old. Never mind, I thought. This book is for when I'm older. Save this one for later. Then: Wait a minute, with a hideous jolt. I'm twenty-nine! I'd almost forgotten. In my head I'm twenty-five. Or maybe nineteen. When I realized I was exactly Binx's age, it seemed to confirm the novel was speaking to me. It was a sign. I bought it and began consuming it on the ride.
