Let us begin with a confession. A sincere, flagellating sort of preamble, the kind with hairshirt fibres still embedded in the gums. I have sinned, and by sin I mean: I have read — actually read — recklessly dangerous books without benefit of trigger warnings or a safety harness. I’ll bet you have, too. And lived to tell the tale! You know the ones. The Capital-C Canon books. The books you’re assigned in Intro to Western Lit and then pretend to read while secretly Googling “