I am an incorrigible over-the-shoulder subway reader. Even when the shoulder belongs to someone flipping through what I believe to be a Korean newspaper, I still try to make out what sorts of stories the person favors. And I pass judgment accordingly. I dole out the literary stink-eye left and right, the intensity doubled for those reading Kindles, thereby depriving me of my fun. (Also, Kindle owners are obviously reading soft-core erotica, or something else embarrassing, like “Little Men.”) But right now I am in the middle of a book that is earning me my own share of glowers from the F-train gang: the short story collection “Self-Help,” by Lorrie Moore, a series of elegiac how-tos for the lovelorn. (“Sit on the couch and tell him he’s stupid. That you bet he doesn’t know who Coriolanus is.”) Moore should earn me snobby nods of approval from people carrying lit-mag totes. Problem is, judging the reader by her book cover—a photo of lots of pill bottles, across which is printed “Self-Help”—one might surmise that when Deepak Chopra stopped being able to get her jazzed, she upped her dosage of print-based life-affirmation. Or so I assumed, until earlier this week, I looked up abruptly and caught a woman laden with Trader Joe’s bags reading over my shoulder. And—did I imagine this?—was she reading my book and crying? “Lovely,” she muttered. I switched cars.
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