Sometimes no matter how much you sit at your desk and try to read Ricoeur on interpreting a text, all you can hear in the back of your mind is “hermeneutics, hermeneutics, hermeneutics,” like so many literary theoricians chanting at an age-old ceremony honoring semiotics or something. When that happens, what you need to do is put on Ute Lemper singing “Mein Herr” as you goosestep around your apartment: “Don’t dab your eye, mein Herr / Or wonder why, mein Herr / I’ve always told you I was a rover. . . .” Then when you calm down, you can have some sweet, sweet papaya to celebrate.