In The Anorexic Maison, there is the sound of feet scurrying to the left and the right, and the little cabbage-faced women putting out the lantern with a virile gusto, denying they’d ever done anything other than take less and less. In a world in which a fork is a weapon, and a scale is a counter-weapon, it gnaws one to be so damn negative, but I’ve checked in many dreadful times, only to find soulful grief as my companion, and a belly full of whey; this is a dangerous book of confession and experiential non-confession (I am hiding something from you that could be my only hysteria, or my true weight, which is blurred forever, out of true memory).