Last night

My wife and I share a few hundred square feet with a few thousand books and a quartet of fifth-generation fruit flies. When I turn out the lights at night, fruit flies and wife both fall asleep and in the dark I can't see our empties, or my unread books, or the dust bunnies blowing like tumbleweed across the floor. In what passes for darkness, the television, one of those old cabinet numbers, still glows a kind of gray, and alongside it, three narrow windows with ill-fitting shades let a yellow crack of Chicago's buttery streetlight in along three sides. It's less than pitch black, but sitting there with the four glowing rectangles and a glass of gin, it's as close as I ever get to forgetting all of the things I have left undone, to hiding them from sight. And as the ice melts in my incomplete night, my drink gets wetter, and I tell myself that I'll just have to drink a little more if I want to see a little less.

Another jacket blurb

So, I was idly shelving a book or two when I came across the now-eighteen-month-old paperback of Memories From a Sinking Ship by Barry Gifford. With my blurb on the cover, FRONT AND BACK. Did I know about this? No. Am I quoted by name? Also, no. But there it is, and it does credit The Review of Contemporary Fiction.