In the beginning, sometimes I left messages in the street.

Somebody is living in the Louvre, certain of the messages would say. Or in the National Gallery.

Naturally they would only say that when I was in Paris or in London. Somebody is living in the Metropolitan Museum, being what they would say when I was still in New York.

Nobody came, of course.

The first lines of David Markson's 1988 novel, Wittgenstein's Mistress. Article by Keith Gessen at Feed.