Sometimes a piece of writing can incite inspiration and spark imagination, the sheer scope of its brilliance motivating you to achieve similar greatness in your own work. Other times you read something so cleverly crafted yet accessible that it provokes envy, equal parts admiration and disgust, feelings of I-could-have-written-this-why-didn't-I-think-of-this. You read on with the morbid curiosity of one who delights in ego-deflation. Once you reach the ending, doubtless containing that perfectly-worded summation which seems both revelatory and inexorable, you fling the piece down defiantly, experiencing a mixture of relief, loss, exhaustion. You feel the need for a cigarette or perhaps a nap.