As it pro­ceeds — by fits and false starts — toward some­thing resem­bling matu­ri­ty, Mid­dling aspires to no greater pur­pose than to dis­tract, irri­tate, or mild­ly per­plex. With­in its hap­haz­ard pages may be found an ill-sort­ed jum­ble of per­son­al con­fes­sions, lit­er­ary dis­mem­ber­ments, bas­tard nar­ra­tives, mis­be­got­ten verse, socio­cul­tur­al kvetch­ings, idle illus­tra­tions, the occa­sion­al com­ic intend­ed to be fun­ny but rarely suc­ceed­ing, and what­ev­er else the author regrets by pub­li­ca­tion. It is an unfenced pas­ture for all man­ner of curiosi­ties, indul­gences, and half-formed thoughts — how­ev­er obscure, inel­e­gant, unedit­ed, or… “pecu­liar.” It does not apol­o­gize. It bare­ly explains.

It is unlike­ly that you shall be improved by read­ing it — moral­ly, intel­lec­tu­al­ly, or oth­er­wise — but with any luck you will be briefly amused, faint­ly offend­ed, or inspired to write some­thing bet­ter out of sheer dis­gust. The author, for his part, promis­es only this: he has writ­ten exact­ly what he meant, and not a word more care­ful­ly than was absolute­ly necessary.