Thirty-two years ago I began a novel, which would not be published in these United States for fifteen years. One more perceptive than I might have gotten the message: You should go to business school.
The narrator of this novel, a roach who grew up in the Bible, and absorbed its content along with its binding paste (much to the detriment of him and his colony), has stayed with me all this time. Just as I often used to wonder how little details of daily life looked to my young daughter (when she was young), I still think about how they would look to him: part insect, part prophet, and wholly disgusted. Finally, after many years, I’m letting him loose in a blog: The Roaches Have No King.