Why, Job, you old son of a gun, where the deuce have we got to now - eh?

Alison Bechdel greets readers ass up, slightly pigeon-toed, her hair a mess, her belly sticking out, her head visible between her legs in a not-svelte downward dog: “Oh, hey! I didn’t see you there!”

She is a metamorphosist who can change gold to dross, joy to horror.

She spoke again, but in a less excited tone, although it was thrillingly earnest.