“Truly, it is a terrible thing to make a book.” That’s André Gide writing in the afterword of his first novella, reviewed this weekend by Nolan Kelly. There are many opinions about the role of literature and art in our lives: that such efforts heal both maker and audience, effect political change, or reveal something essential about what it means to be human.

Gide strikes a different note, which I choose to interpret as a description of the sheer egotism of writers and artists — the demand that others pay sustained attention to their innermost thoughts. And yet, despite this insistence, what we crave in art and literature is what we would consider “terrible” in any social situation. Perhaps, as we emerge into common life again, we might bring to our renewed connections the same open, even joyous disposition we grant a book or painting.