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Years later, long since fully grown and each of them enmeshed in his own particular form of unhappiness, none of Arthur Friedland’s sons could recall whose idea it had actually been to go to the hypnotist that afternoon.

It was 1984, and Arthur didn’t have a job. He wrote novels that no publisher wanted to print, and stories that appeared occasionally in magazines. It was all he did, but his wife was an eye doctor, and that paid the bills.

On the way there he talked to his thirteen-year-old sons about Nietzsche and different brands of chewing gum. They argued about an animated movie that had just opened starring a robot who was also the Redeemer, they traded theories about why Yoda talked so weirdly, and wondered whether Superman was stronger than Batman. Finally they pulled up in front of a line of row houses in a street in the outer boroughs. Arthur honked the horn twice, and within seconds a front door flew open.

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