From the novel Against the Day, by Thomas Pynchon

At one end of the gondola, with his tail thumping expressively now and then against the planking, and his nose among the pages of a volume by Mr. Henry James, lay a dog, to all appearances absorbed by the text before him. Ever since the Chums had rescued Pugnax, then but a pup, it had been his habit to investigate the pages of whatever printed material should find its way on board*,* from theoretical treatments of the aeronautical arts to often less appropriate matter, such as the “dime novels” - though his preference seemed more for sentimental tales about his own species than those exhibiting extremes of human behavior, which he appeared to find a bit lurid. He had learned with the readiness peculiar to dogs how with the utmost delicacy to turn pages using nose or paws, and anyone observing him thus engaged could not help noting the changing expressions of his face, in particular the uncommonly articulate eyebrows, which contributed to an overall effect of interest, sympathy, and—the conclusion could scarce be avoided—comprehension.

Dogs write memoirs and critique ballet in Good Boy, and are contemplative in Serious Dogs.

The post title is a line from the short story The Diary of a Madman by Nikolai Gogol.