Last night I woke up at 2:30 am and could not return to sleep. After tossing around for an hour, I migrated to the living room, lit a candle, and finished reading my novel, Piranesi:—a beautiful book, I thought afterward, an almost perfect book. It was shorter than expected; I wanted to read more;—but what, I thought, could be added to it that could not possibly diminish it?—Nothing.