When the reader first hefts The Fry Chronicles by Stephen Fry, and on reading the jacket notes first discovers that the 400-page volume in hand is just that, the second volume of what—the 10 or 12 that the author intends to dedicate to recording the this-a and that-a errata that make up his glorious life—the reader experiences certain fears, the chief being that the experience of reading the book will be akin to being trapped in a corner at a cocktail party by the group blowhard and having to watch the ice cubes melt in one’s glass while feigning interest. Or worse, that one will be expected to go back and read the equally long first volume of the memoir before reading one in hand.
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