{"id":196078,"date":"2026-06-27T22:53:58","date_gmt":"2026-06-28T06:53:58","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lukeford.net\/blog\/?p=196078"},"modified":"2026-06-27T16:04:52","modified_gmt":"2026-06-28T00:04:52","slug":"the-double-life-jonathan-ames-between-memoir-and-invention","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lukeford.net\/blog\/?p=196078","title":{"rendered":"The Double Life: Jonathan Ames Between Memoir and Invention"},"content":{"rendered":"

Jonathan Ames<\/a> (b. March 23, 1964) writes across novels, essays, comics, television, and film, and he treats each form as a way to turn his own embarrassments into literature. He works the border between memoir and invention and keeps that border unstable on purpose. His books read as confession even when they invent, and as comedy even when they grieve. The recurring figure in his work is a lonely, anxious man who wants intimacy and dignity and keeps tripping over himself in the pursuit. That man is sometimes named Jonathan Ames.<\/p>\n

He was born in New York City and grew up in Oakland, New Jersey, in a secular Jewish home. His mother taught school and wrote poetry. His father sold goods and pressed books on his son. Ames has said he felt like an outsider as a boy, and that sense of standing slightly apart runs through both his fiction and his memoir. He attended Indian Hills High School and then took an English degree from Princeton University<\/a> in 1987. For his senior thesis he wrote a fictional collection credited to an invented author, an early sign of his taste for literary masks and unreliable narration. He earned an MFA in fiction from Columbia University<\/a> and later taught writing at Columbia, The New School<\/a>, and the Iowa Writers’ Workshop<\/a>. A Guggenheim Fellowship<\/a> followed.<\/p>\n

His first novel, I Pass Like Night (1989), set out the themes he would return to for decades: alienation, romantic hunger, a self divided against itself. His breakthrough came with The Extra Man (1998), a comic novel about a socially awkward young man who falls under the spell of an eccentric older escort, a man who squires wealthy Manhattan widows to dinners and openings. The book shows Ames’s affection for literary oddballs in the line of P. G. Wodehouse<\/a> (1881-1975) and Evelyn Waugh<\/a> (1903-1966), and it roots that comedy in the anxieties of contemporary New York. A 2010 film adaptation starred Paul Dano<\/a> (b. 1984), Kevin Kline<\/a> (b. 1947), and John C. Reilly<\/a> (b. 1965), with Ames as co-screenwriter.<\/p>\n

His standing as a comic novelist grew with Wake Up, Sir! (2004), an affectionate send-up of British upper-class fiction built around Alan Blair, an alcoholic young writer who travels with an imaginary valet named Jeeves. Critics admired the mix of literary homage, emotional exposure, and absurdist comedy. Under the comic surface sits a study of depression, artistic failure, addiction, and the wish for dignity after repeated humiliation.<\/p>\n

Alongside the fiction, Ames became a defining voice of New York’s alternative literary scene through his column in the New York Press<\/a> in the late 1990s and early 2000s. His essays made comic literature out of therapy sessions, romantic collapses, sexual misadventures, hair-loss treatments, colonic irrigation, and a long catalogue of personal shame. He also recorded a fading bohemian landscape, pre-gentrification Brooklyn and the old Times Square, a New York then vanishing. Where literary journalism often claims a detached authority, Ames made himself the butt of the joke. His nonfiction collections, among them What’s Not to Love?, My Less Than Secret Life, I Love You More Than You Know, and The Double Life Is Twice As Good, placed him among the leading practitioners of confessional American nonfiction. His candor drew comparisons to Charles Bukowski<\/a> (1920-1994), though his sensibility owes as much to the Jewish comic tradition of Philip Roth<\/a> (1933-2018), and to Portnoy’s Complaint in particular. Bukowski swaggers. Ames’s narrators flinch, apologize, and confess.<\/p>\n

Throughout his career Ames has handled public performance as an arm of the writing. He created and toured the one-man stage show Oedipussy, performed at storytelling events such as The Moth<\/a>, and boxed in a string of publicized amateur literary matches under the nickname “The Herring Wonder.” One bout pitted him against the novelist Craig Davidson<\/a> (b. 1972). These fights turned physical vulnerability into performance and made literal the masculine insecurity and self-exposure that run through the prose. His public persona became hard to separate from the fictional Ameses who fill his books and his television work. Readers often cannot say where memoir ends and invention begins, and he has cultivated that doubt.<\/p>\n

He has explored identity through editing and acting as well. He edited Sexual Metamorphosis: An Anthology of Transsexual Memoirs, a project that reflects a long interest in transformation and self-definition. He has taken small acting roles in Curb Your Enthusiasm<\/a> and Drunk History<\/a>, usually playing some version of his own eccentric public self.<\/p>\n

In 2008 Ames worked with the cartoonist Dean Haspiel<\/a> (b. 1967) on the graphic novel The Alcoholic, published by DC Comics<\/a>‘ Vertigo<\/a> imprint. The book uses the visual grammar of comics to treat addiction, shame, memory, and self-destruction with a seriousness that answers his comedy. Publishing through Vertigo carried his work to graphic-novel readers and showed his ease in moving between literary and visual storytelling.<\/p>\n

His widest popular success came as the creator of the HBO<\/a> series Bored to Death<\/a>, which ran from 2009 through 2011. Jason Schwartzman<\/a> (b. 1980) plays a fictionalized Jonathan Ames, a struggling Brooklyn novelist who advertises himself as an unlicensed private detective while trying to repair his romantic life. Ted Danson<\/a> (b. 1947) plays a hedonistic magazine editor drawn loosely from several of Ames’s literary mentors, and Zach Galifianakis<\/a> (b. 1969) plays his eccentric comic-book-artist friend. The show fused detective fiction, literary satire, romantic comedy, and autobiography into a hybrid that won a devoted following. Ames himself turned up on the program from time to time, dissolving the line between creator and character a little further. After cancellation at the end of three seasons, HBO commissioned a screenplay for a concluding feature film, but the project stalled in development despite a long campaign by fans and by Ames to finish the story.<\/p>\n

Ames showed a darker register with You Were Never Really Here, first published as a novella in 2013. The story follows Joe, a damaged veteran who rescues trafficked girls through extreme violence while fighting his own trauma and depression. The director Lynne Ramsay<\/a> (b. 1969) adapted the novella into a 2017 film starring Joaquin Phoenix<\/a> (b. 1974). The film premiered at Cannes and won Best Actor for Phoenix and Best Screenplay for Ramsay. Ames served as an executive producer and watched one of his bleakest works become a celebrated psychological thriller.<\/p>\n

He returned to television with the Starz<\/a> comedy Blunt Talk<\/a> (2015-2016), starring Patrick Stewart<\/a> (b. 1940) as an aging British television journalist trying to reinvent himself in Los Angeles. Produced by Seth MacFarlane<\/a> (b. 1973), the series carried forward Ames’s interest in flawed men chasing reinvention while it satirized American cable news, celebrity, and modern media.<\/p>\n

In recent years he has moved toward crime fiction while keeping his psychological concerns. The Happy Doll trilogy, A Man Named Doll (2021), The Wheel of Doll (2022), and Karma Doll (2025), follows a former Los Angeles police officer turned private investigator whose emotional wounds matter as much as the cases he solves. The novels draw on the Southern California private-eye line of Ross Macdonald<\/a> (1915-1983) and Raymond Chandler<\/a> (1888-1959) while keeping Ames’s blend of humor, melancholy, and exposure. The trilogy marks a shift in his career. It trades the neurotic energy of Manhattan for the sun-bleached sadness of Los Angeles and uses detective fiction as one more vehicle for identity, loneliness, and moral doubt. Ames has lived in Los Angeles in recent years with his dog, Fezzik, and the city shapes the Doll novels.<\/p>\n

Several themes recur across the work. His protagonists are lonely, anxious men who hunt for intimacy and moral purpose in cities that reward performance over sincerity. They invent alternate selves as detectives, aristocrats, performers, or heroes to escape ordinary disappointment, and they learn that reinvention rarely cures the underlying fear. Investigation becomes a figure for self-examination, which makes detective fiction a natural extension of his autobiographical habit. He treats failure as comic rather than tragic and suggests that self-awareness, vulnerability, and humor offer steadier forms of redemption than success. His writing also takes up Jewish identity, addiction, depression, erotic longing, aging, and the strained relationship between artistic ambition and daily survival.<\/p>\n

Ames holds a particular place in contemporary American literature. His work draws at once on comic novelists such as Wodehouse, on confessional writers such as Roth, on existential outsiders such as Franz Kafka<\/a> (1883-1924), on memoir, and on classic detective fiction. His prose looks simple and is not: it relies on understatement, awkward dialogue, emotional honesty, and controlled comic timing rather than display. Even when he writes about violence, addiction, or despair, he keeps a sympathy for human weakness and a faith that shame, shared, can become a form of connection.<\/p>\n

Ames belongs to a small group of American writers at home in fiction, memoir, comics, television, film, and crime writing at once. Over more than three decades he has shown that confession, comedy, genre, and serious literary ambition need not work against one another. He has made them feed one another, and the body of work that results is personal, inventive, and unlike that of any other American writer of his generation.<\/p>\n

The Convertible Self: Jonathan Ames and the Economy of Literary Capital<\/strong><\/p>\n

Pierre Bourdieu (1930-2002) gave us a way to read a career as a series of moves across fields, each with its own currency, its own rules for what counts as worth, its own players competing for position. A field is a structured space of struggle. Capital is what you fight with and for, and it comes in kinds: cultural capital, the credentials and tastes and knowledge that mark a man as legitimate; social capital, the network he can draw on; symbolic capital, the prestige that the other forms harden into once a field recognizes them. The interesting question about any career is not whether a man has capital but whether he can convert one kind into another, and at what exchange rate, and what he loses in the trade. Jonathan Ames is a clean case. Read through Bourdieu, his life is a long sequence of conversions between two fields that rarely trust each other: the restricted field of literary prestige, where the audience is small and the reward is recognition by other producers, and the large-scale field of commercial entertainment, where the audience is wide and the reward is money and reach.
\nStart with how Ames accumulates the first kind of capital. The credentials arrive early and they are the right ones. An English degree from Princeton University in 1987. An MFA in fiction from Columbia University. Teaching posts at Columbia, The New School, and the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, which is the most consecrated address in American creative writing. A Guggenheim Fellowship, which is the literary field certifying him in its own coin. These are not random honors. They are the institutional stamps that the restricted field uses to say a man belongs, and Ames collects the full set. His senior thesis, a fictional collection credited to an invented author, already shows him performing literary sophistication for the people who grade such things. He learned the rules of the prestige field and he satisfied them.
\nThe early novels do the same work in a different register. I Pass Like Night (1989) and The Extra Man (1998) and Wake Up, Sir! (2004) place him inside a recognizable literary lineage. The Extra Man and Wake Up, Sir! wear their debts to P. G. Wodehouse (1881-1975) and Evelyn Waugh (1903-1966) openly, and the critics who praised them did so in the vocabulary of the restricted field: homage, comic tradition, the literary oddball. To write an affectionate parody of British upper-class fiction, complete with an imaginary Jeeves, is to signal that you have read the canon and can play inside it. That signal is cultural capital. It buys recognition from the people who decide what literary fiction is, and recognition from them is the only currency that field pays out.
\nThen comes a second and stranger accumulation, and Bourdieu helps us see why it matters. Alongside the consecrated capital of Princeton and the Guggenheim, Ames builds a parallel stock of bohemian capital through the New York Press column in the late 1990s and early 2000s. This is capital of a different texture. Its value comes from authenticity, from downtown credibility, from the willingness to write about therapy and hair loss and colonic irrigation and sexual failure without the protective distance that literary journalism usually keeps. He chronicles a vanishing New York, pre-gentrification Brooklyn and the old Times Square, and in doing so he attaches himself to a bohemian world whose value rises precisely as it disappears. The boxing matches under the name “The Herring Wonder” belong to the same account. They look like a stunt and they are, but they are also capital accumulation in the avant-garde subfield, where a writer who will get punched in public for art earns a kind of credibility that no fellowship confers.
\nBourdieu’s term for this is useful. The restricted field has, inside it, a pole of consecration (the prizes, the chairs, the canon) and a pole of avant-garde rebellion (the column, the stunt, the refusal of authority). Ames occupies both at once, and that double position is unusual. Most writers sit at one pole and resent the other. Ames banks the Guggenheim and gets in the ring. He teaches at Iowa and writes about his colon. He holds consecrated capital and bohemian capital in the same hand, and the combination is what makes the next move possible.
\nThe next move is the conversion that defines the career: out of the literary field and into commercial entertainment. Bourdieu would have us watch the exchange rate, because converting literary capital into the large-scale field is risky. The two fields run on opposed principles. The restricted field treats commercial success with suspicion; the surest way to lose standing among literary producers is to be seen to chase money. The large-scale field treats literary prestige as raw material, useful for marketing but worthless on its own terms unless it draws an audience. A man who crosses over can find that the capital he carried with him does not spend the same way on the other side.
\nAmes crosses over and makes the capital spend. The Extra Man becomes a 2010 feature with Paul Dano (b. 1984), Kevin Kline (b. 1947), and John C. Reilly (b. 1965), and Ames co-writes the screenplay, which keeps him a producer of the work rather than a man whose book was bought. The decisive conversion is Bored to Death, the HBO series that ran from 2009 through 2011. Here the genius of the trade shows itself. Ames does not sell out his literary capital. He puts it on screen. The protagonist is a fictionalized Jonathan Ames, a struggling Brooklyn novelist, played by Jason Schwartzman (b. 1980). Ted Danson (b. 1947) plays an editor drawn from Ames’s literary mentors. The whole apparatus of the restricted field, the failed novelist, the little magazine, the Brooklyn literary world, becomes the content of a commercial product. The bohemian capital from the New York Press column and the consecrated capital from the novels both go into the show. He converts literary prestige into television reach without spending the prestige down, because the prestige is the subject.
\nThe pattern repeats. Blunt Talk on Starz (2015-2016), with Patrick Stewart (b. 1940) and the producer Seth MacFarlane (b. 1973), extends the reach. You Were Never Really Here moves the capital in the most prestigious direction the large-scale field allows: the 2017 film by Lynne Ramsay (b. 1969), with Joaquin Phoenix (b. 1974), premiered at Cannes and won Best Actor and Best Screenplay. Cannes is the point where the commercial field touches the consecrated one, the festival that the restricted field of cinema will honor. Ames as executive producer of a Cannes winner holds capital that reads as legitimate in both fields at once. That is the rare conversion that loses nothing in the exchange.
\nNow watch the return trip, because this is where the Bourdieusian reading earns its keep. After the television years, Ames carries his accumulated capital back into the literary field with the Happy Doll trilogy: A Man Named Doll (2021), The Wheel of Doll (2022), and Karma Doll (2025). A man returning to the novel after HBO and Starz and Cannes faces a problem. He must re-enter the restricted field without looking like a television writer slumming in books. The genre he picks solves the problem. Crime fiction in the Southern California line of Ross Macdonald (1915-1983) and Raymond Chandler (1888-1959) is the one popular form that the literary field has half-consecrated, the genre a serious writer is allowed to love. By writing detective novels rather than literary fiction, Ames re-enters at a slant, claiming a tradition that pays in both fields. The Los Angeles setting helps, since he has lived there and writes the city from inside. He comes home to the novel carrying the reach the screen gave him, and he spends it on a form the literary field will still take seriously.
\nSo the career, read through Bourdieu, is a study in a writer who learned the exchange rates between two hostile fields and traded across them without going bankrupt in either. The conversions hold together because of a single trick that runs underneath all of them. Ames makes his own literary position the content of his commercial work. The struggling novelist, the failed romance, the confessional column, the man who boxes for art, these are the products. He does not have to choose between the prestige field and the audience field because he sells the prestige field, its anxieties and its failures, to the audience field as entertainment. The capital never depreciates in the move because the move is the subject.
\nThree things follow for a reader watching this from inside the field, and they are worth stating plainly. First, the double position at both poles of the literary field, consecrated and avant-garde at once, is the precondition for everything after; a writer who held only the Guggenheim or only the downtown column would have had less to convert. Second, the safest conversion is the one where the prestige is the content rather than the credential, which is why Bored to Death holds where a straighter sellout might have cost him standing. Third, the return to the literary field works because crime fiction is the genre the field has agreed to honor, so a man can come back through that door without paying the usual price for having left. The career rewards the man who can read the field he is standing in and the field he is moving toward, and who can find the one form that spends in both. Ames could read both fields. The body of work is the record of the trades.<\/p>\n

The Shown Wound: Jonathan Ames and the Heroism of Exposure<\/strong><\/p>\n

The man in the ring is a novelist. He has a Princeton degree and a Columbia MFA and a Guggenheim, and he stands in trunks under bad light with his hands taped, waiting to be hit in front of a crowd that reads for a living. He fights under the name “The Herring Wonder.” One night the other man is the novelist Craig Davidson, another writer who agreed to trade punches for art. The audience holds drinks and watches two literary men do the one thing the literary world trains them never to do, which is to abandon the protection of irony and let the body take the blow where everyone can see. The point of the spectacle is the exposure. A writer climbs through the ropes so that a room of writers can watch him get hurt and watch him not hide it.
\nErnest Becker<\/a> (1924-1974) gives the frame that makes this scene legible. Becker argues that men live under two terrors and build hero systems to survive them. The first terror is death, the knowledge that the body rots and the self ends. The second is the terror of insignificance, the fear that a man might pass through the world without mattering to it, a creature among billions, unwitnessed and unremembered. The hero system is the cultural scheme that answers both at once. It tells a man how to earn the feeling that he is an object of primary value in a universe of meaning, and it offers him a path to symbolic immortality, a way to leave something that outlasts the body. Soldiers find it in the flag, scientists in the discovery that carries their name, fathers in the children who survive them. Every man needs a way to feel he counts, and the way he chooses tells you what he holds sacred.
\nFor a writer the second terror bites hardest. The fear is not only that he dies but that he dies minor, a man whose books went out of print and whose name nobody recognized. Ames builds his answer to both terrors out of a single material that most hero systems treat as poison. He builds it out of shame. The sacred act, in his system, is exposure. To show the wound, to display the failing and creaturely and embarrassing self, to make himself the joke before anyone else can, becomes the heroic deed that earns him standing and converts the perishable body into something the page keeps.
\nWatch what he exposes. The therapy sessions. The hair loss. The colonic irrigation. The sexual failures and the romantic collapses. The aging body and its appetites and its leaks. Becker says the hero system usually works by denial, by refusing to look at the animal body that sweats and dies, because that body is the proof of mortality a man cannot bear. Most systems hide the creature to keep the terror at bay. Ames drags the creature into the light. He writes the body’s humiliations down and prints them. The act looks like the opposite of a defense against death, and that is the trick of it. He cannot deny the dying animal, so he makes the dying animal his subject and his material, and the page outlives the animal and stays full of it. The shameful body becomes the immortality vehicle. The man will die. The colonic irrigation essay will not.
\nThis is why the confessional column, the boxing, the one-man show, the fictionalized Ameses who fill the novels and the HBO series, all run on the same engine. The struggling Brooklyn novelist played by Jason Schwartzman is a man failing in public for an audience. The unlicensed detective is a man who turns his own inadequacy into a job. Each invention lets Ames stage the wound one more time and convert it one more time into the thing that lasts and the thing that draws an audience to witness him. Becker would say the man has found his path to feeling he counts, and the path runs straight through the material other men spend their lives concealing.
\nA vital lie sits underneath, and the system needs it. Ames must believe the confession is honest all the way down, that the exposure is raw, that he gives the reader the unguarded man. The truth the system cannot fully face is that the confession is made. It is selected, timed, shaped, and the comedy is engineered. Making yourself the joke is also a way to own the joke, to reach the verdict before the jury does, to disarm judgment by performing it first. The shown wound is also a held shield. The reader who thinks he sees a man with no defenses is watching a man whose defense is the appearance of having none. Ames half-knows this and cannot afford to know it all the way, because the value depends on the rawness, and the rawness is partly a craft. The performer who looks most exposed is the one in most control of what shows.
\nNow the word turns, because exposure means one thing in Ames’s system and other things entirely in the systems around it, and the same act that saves him would destroy other men.
\nPicture the intelligence officer working under a false name in a hostile city. His whole life rests on concealment. The cover is the self he shows, and the real self stays buried, and the day the cover is blown is the day he is taken or killed. For him exposure is the catastrophe the entire craft exists to prevent. He earns his standing by remaining invisible, by leaving no wound for anyone to read. He would look at the man in the ring and see a fool throwing away the one thing that keeps a man alive. To show the self is to die. His hero system makes a virtue of the unread face.
\nPicture the Pashtun man under the honor code his fathers kept, where nang, honor, governs the worth of a man and his house. The code requires him never to show fear, never to admit the wound, never to let weakness appear before other men, because the appearance of weakness pulls down not only him but his line. Strength shown and weakness hidden hold the family’s place in the world. For this man Ames’s central act is not heroism and not even folly. It is the deliberate ruin of everything worth having. To stand in a ring and let a room watch you hurt and then to write the hurt down for strangers would forfeit the standing a man spends his life defending. The wound shown is the house disgraced.
\nPicture the Carthusian in his cell, a monk under a vow of silence in an order built on the hidden life with God. For him confession is sacred and required, but private, spoken to God and to the one confessor, sealed. Exposure to the world is the enemy. To display the self before the crowd is vanity, the sin the cloister exists to starve. He seeks the same prize Ames seeks, a life that outlasts the body, and he seeks it through self-emptying before God rather than self-display before readers. The monk and the novelist both confess. One does it to vanish into God. The other does it to be seen by everyone. The same speech act points in opposite directions, toward erasure of the self and toward the broadcast of it.
\nPicture the martyr in the Roman arena, exposed to the crowd and the beasts. Here exposure is witness. The Greek word for the martyr means the one who testifies, and the broken body in the sand testifies to the faith and to the God the martyr will not deny. This is an immortality project run through public display of suffering, which sounds like Ames until you see where the meaning lands. The martyr’s exposed body glorifies God and writes his name in the church’s memory as a servant, not a self. The display points away from the man. Ames’s points toward him. Both convert the suffering body into something remembered, and the difference is the whole difference: the one offers the body up to something larger, the other makes the body the work.
\nPicture the burlesque performer who reveals for money under stage light, who knows the reveal is technique and the tease is power and nothing comes free that has not been priced. For this performer exposure is a transaction, controlled, timed, sold one beat at a time. The audience thinks it takes something. The performer gives only what was decided in advance. This figure stands closest to Ames, and that nearness is what makes the performer the dangerous one for his system, because the performer holds up a mirror to the lie underneath. The performer never pretends the reveal is artless. Ames must pretend, a little, that his is. The performer shows him that the most exposed body in the room can be the most defended, that giving the audience the wound on a schedule is a way to keep the wound your own.
\nSet these systems side by side and the boxing ring reads differently in each pair of eyes in the crowd. To the officer’s cast of mind the novelist commits suicide by publication. To the man of nang he commits disgrace. To the monk he commits vanity. To the martyr’s faith he confuses the self for the cause worth dying for. To the performer he runs a good act and oversells its honesty. And to Ames, watching back, every one of them has chosen a hero system that hides the creature and so loses the chance the creature offers. The officer dies unread. The man of honor carries a wound he can never set down. The monk gives the confession to God and to no reader. The martyr spends the body on the cause and keeps none for the page. The performer prices the reveal and so can never give it away as love. Ames keeps the wound, shows it, and turns it into the durable thing and into the point of contact with strangers, and that is the bet his whole life places: that shame shown beats shame buried, that the embarrassed body printed outlasts the dignified body concealed.
\nThree coordinates locate the system for a reader who wants to watch it work. The first is the gap between the rawness Ames claims and the control he keeps. Watch the timing of the comic beat, the selection of which humiliation reaches the page and which does not, the shape under the apparent shapelessness. The confession is a built object, and the man’s denial that it is built supplies the energy that powers the rest. The second is the cost. Ames trades the armor of reticence for the reach of exposure, and the trade binds him. He can never be only the dignified man, because the dignified man produces nothing his system can use. He has to keep finding the wound and showing it, and a hero system that runs on shame needs a steady supply. The third is the gift, and it might outlast the cost. The creaturely body that every other system here buries, Ames makes permanent and makes shared, so the thing a man hides becomes the thing that joins him to the reader who hides the same. He stands in the ring so a room of writers can watch him get hit and watch him refuse to hide it, and the refusal is the whole hero system in one act. The blow lands. The body fails. The man writes it down, and the writing does not die when he does.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Jonathan Ames (b. March 23, 1964) writes across novels, essays, comics, television, and film, and he treats each form as a way to turn his own embarrassments into literature. He works the border between memoir and invention and keeps that … Continue reading →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[38],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-196078","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-literature"],"aioseo_notices":[],"aioseo_head":"\n\t\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t