I recently devoured an eggs benedict with an author who wrote an erotic Ancient Mayan masterpiece. Monica Byrne was surprisingly accessible for someone who spent her leisurely time and a solid chunk of her thirties embedded in the Belizean jungle to research the spelling and pronunciations of words like Ixul and Xibalba. To impress her, I was prepared to mine all of my obscure Central American knowledge on poisonous cashews and whale sharks—normally reserved for pub night trivia during dank nights in London. But instead, we spoke about the smell of North Carolina’s pine trees, the complexities of family, and the delightful array of Aryan eye candy on display in the Hackescher Markt district of the Berlin city centre between bites of hollandaise and sourdough, which—as we both said repeatedly—was ‘like, so fucking delish.’ I’ve been blessed to enjoy many sumptuous egg dates in the past, but none with a person who possessed such meticulous knowledge of reincarnation or blood sacrifices—and certainly not over a plate of pulled pork. She refused to let me pay, despite being a guest in my city, whom I had invited to that café for the sole purpose of fangirling in her presence. And she had humoured me with no small amount of grace or kindness.

As if The Actual Star was not enough of a gift that has blessed me and anyone else who has picked it up with nearly six hundred pages of visionary euphoria.