In 1987, Michael Jackson’s album Bad was released. Shortly thereafter, I acquired the vinyl record and listened to it over and over, with rapture, watching the record spin on the player in my bedroom and gaping at the sounds coming out of it.

Even as a girl who hadn’t yet graduated from elementary school, I had strong opinions about that album—namely, that it was great. There are no loser songs there. I still think that today, more than 30 years later.

In those pre-Internet days when it was difficult to preview music before buying it, I acquired many other albums that I would not describe as, shall we say, thrillers. Perhaps you, like me, remember hearing a song on the radio and buying the full album, only to be disappointed by every song recorded by the artist other than the one that initially charmed you into a purchase.

In other words, one hit does not a true artist make. I’ve found—not just in music but also in books, clothing brands, cliques of people, and card games—that one article is not enough for one to make a judgement call on the entire set, regarding either type or quality.

Have you ever shown up at a party where you know no one but the host, only to realize that you can’t stand any of the host’s friends, even though he or she is one of your favorite people in the world?

I don’t know Ottessa Moshfegh, but I think she has a cool name—which has been popping up a lot lately in the literary-type magazines I read. According to Wikipedia, she is from Boston, her mom is from Croatia, and her dad is Jewish and from Iran. I greatly enjoyed her novel My Year of Rest and Relaxation; I found it unique and interesting.

As this is the one and only work by her that I have read, I am having trouble conceptualizing her as an artist. Does she usually write about young, troubled women, circa 2000, who try extremely hard to sleep their lives away? I checked out all of her other books from the library. They are sitting right here: in a nice little stack. I would like to tear through them; but then, I have several other stacks of books lying around that are equally enticing, and I would like to tear through those, too. And then there are all the other things I need and want to do in life.

What good and bad experiences have you had in encountering a one and only representative—and then getting to know its fellows?

Around noon on Tuesday, having nothing better to do, the inquisitive one drove to the little skating rink in the town square and parked in the garage. After gathering up the hockey skates in the back seat, the inquisitive one walked to the rink.

But the skating rink, the inquisitive one saw, was packed with people! Some were racing one another: a challenging endeavor, considering the short straightaways and tight corners. Some were jumping, spinning, and performing graceful arm movements, also a challenge in the small amount of space available. Some were guiding and teaching small children, who were having trouble keeping their skates upright. And others were skating backwards, with their butts and arms sticking out.

“Why are there so many people on the ice, at this time on a weekday?” the inquisitive one couldn’t help but exclaim. “And how talented they all are. I wonder who they are!”

A nearby woman, who looked to be of retirement age, smiled at the inquisitive one. Then she said, “These are all furloughed federal government employees. They started coming here weeks ago. The government has been shut down for so long that they have gotten quite good at skating! Oh, and come back in a couple hours, if you’d like to see a professional-level hockey game. That’s why I’m here—to get a good seat for that.”

“Wow!” replied the inquisitive one. “Thanks for telling me about this! Perhaps I will join you, in a bit.”

Too intimidated to put on the hockey skates and join the crowd, the inquisitive one strolled into the library. In that great hall, which was usually fairly empty, people were everywhere! And yet a deep silence reigned. Most of the patrons were reading or writing. There were not enough wooden chairs and tables for everyone, but people, it seemed, had brought in their own camping chairs, beanbag chairs, and cushions. There were long lines at the information and checkout desks—especially at the information desk. This line wrapped halfway around the ground floor. Despite this, the people standing in the line did not seem upset; they were all engrossed in physical and e- books. The aisles were as crowded as Walmart on a Sunday afternoon; and yet there were so few books on the shelves that it looked like a post-hurricane looting had occurred.

“Why are there so many people here, at this time on a weekday?” the inquisitive one couldn’t help but whisper. “And they all look so engrossed in their studies. I wonder who they are!”

A nearby man, who looked to be of retirement age, smiled at the inquisitive one. Then he whispered, “These are all furloughed federal government employees. They started coming here weeks ago. The government has been shut down for so long that they have learned quite a lot! Would you like to attend a lecture by one of them, on Ancient Rome? That’s why I’m here. It starts in a couple hours, but we will want to reserve our seats, as there is sure to be a standing-room-only crowd. The lecturer has become one of the world’s foremost experts in that era.”

“Wow!” replied the inquisitive one. “Thanks for telling me about this! Perhaps I will join you, in a bit.”

There being so few books on the shelves, there was little point in the inquisitive one hanging around to browse. Turning and walking toward the door, the inquisitive one glanced at the message boards on the wall. These were plastered over with beautifully designed placards announcing other events happening that day: and it seemed that every conceivable type of artistic and scholarly and athletic endeavor was represented. And then, glancing out of the big, front-facing windows, which were suddenly rumbling, the inquisitive one saw a fleet of helicopters. And the inquisitive one wondered whether the president was aboard one of them.

Then instantly, in a fit of passion, the inquisitive one ran out into the chilly air and shouted something up at the helicopters, at top volume.

But what exactly the inquisitive one said must remain a mystery, because, at that moment, a band burst into the opening strains of a loud, soul-thumping, perfectly in-tune, hauntingly sweet, and beautifully patriotic song.

Let’s talk about how beautiful the human form is.

Let’s talk about the curving of the calf muscle, the bulging of bone and muscle at the ankle, the veins running down the foot.

Let’s talk about the starkness of black and white photography. Let’s talk about the lighting of this particular photo: haunting, yet delicate; revealing some, yet withholding more.

As Corinne Fisher and Krystyna Hutchinson note in their book F*cked, bodies come in all shapes and sizes, and society often holds one type artificially aloft, whereas natural beauty comes in a great diversity of forms. Actually, it was Hutchinson who made that observation, and she was specifically referring to genitalia.

All right, then, as long as we’re talking, let’s talk about the beauty and importance of sex.

It’s beautiful. It’s important. Just like you.

And the award for Best Artistry goes to . . . again . . . the Universe!

Congratulations; but you must be weary of winning every year.

Not weary? Just ticking on as usual? I see.

Actually, to be honest, I don’t.

I love to read books like Searching for Stars on an Island in Maine by Alan Lightman, books that illuminate scientific theories and connect them to our daily lives. But there always comes a point in such books where the author admits that we are far from figuring it all out, that we’re nowhere near getting to the bottom of all the mysteries of the universe . . . and whatever lies beyond.

Lightman’s inquiry leads down the paths of science and spirituality—a fascinating journey. However, while he points out many ways in which the two intersect and remain parallel, he also confesses that most of their secrets remain beyond the ken of mere twenty-first-century humans.

Of course, I would not prefer to read a book by an author who claims to know everything!

Sigh. Well, then, instead of yearning for what we cannot have, shall we admire together the artistry of this spiral galaxy?