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Incorrect, of course. I collect history books not with the intention of reading them, but rather to cultivate the illusion of erudition for any guest who steps into my home. They serve as props—silent witnesses to a persona I’ve carefully curated—allowing me to fabricate elaborate historical narratives at will.

On one occasion, I even succeeded in convincing someone that the First World War was sparked by a gay sex party gone awry.

I’m keenly aware that none of my friends read. So really—who, I ask, is going to challenge me?