I was at work, in what looked like a cafeteria, taking a break, maybe at the end of the day. I was reading a Don Delillo book and two colleagues sat nearby. One mentioned how much he liked Delillo. “It’s not for simpletons,” he remarked.

“I think if he heard you say that,” I said, “he might accuse you of—”

“Condescension?”

“Condescension. Being condescending.”