I arrived in Islamabad two days ago, and the 16-hour journey from New York gave me the time to begin reading Jonathan Franzen’s “The Corrections,” which is a treat. An early passage involves a conversation between Chip Lambert, a troubled slacker from the Midwest, and Gitanas Milsevicius, a troubled dissident from Lithuania. Milsevicius has rolled up his sleeve to reveal scars from cigarette burns administered by Soviet prison guards; Chip may have similar wounds. The passage, which loses a bit of its stone-faced humor when quoted on its own, offers a wry perspective on American identity:
“So, what, you got cigarette burns, too?” Gitanas said.
Chip showed his palm. “It’s nothing.”
“Self-inflicted. You pathetic American.”
“Different kind of prison,” Chip said.
