The writer of nonfiction enjoys a rare posture in the world: she is an interpreter. That is, if the writer of fiction is a creator, the nonfiction writer is a selector, a sieve, a filter through which the world is viewed and experienced. This, no doubt, leaves nonfiction in an odd and seemingly unenviable position: it always comes after what "really counts," acting as a mere commentator. Despite the fact that it makes as many literary pretensions as fiction, it is often denied the status of artistic achievement, as if it were simply the symptom of a so-called real event. Ah, but think of the power: the nonfiction writer decides what things, what events, what people, what ideas are worthy of discussion, which and who and what merit further examination. And then, once the reader's attention is captured, the writer of nonfiction gives shape to the thing under consideration: she glorifies this, villifies that, decides whether a story is important or altogether banal. And think of the pleasure: the nonfiction writer chooses what thing tickles her fancy, and then indulges that thing, swims around in it, frolics, consumes, and digests that thing. Think of Annie Dillard endlessly reveling in the thrall of nature for "Pilgim at Tinker Creek," of Tom Wolfe joining the Merry Pranksters for a psychedelic party, Hunter S. Thompson riding with the Hell's Angels, and Frank McCourt taking the time and energy to wrestle his past to the ground. Consider the father of the essay, Montaigne, teasing himself with ideas and teasing ideas with himself: what could be more luxurious? And then there's the freedom: if the writer of fiction must adhere to narrative flow, to the consistency of character, the nonfiction writer can - and must - go wherever the object of consideration goes. It is an odd freedom, but a freedom nevertheless; it is a freedom to enjoy and to know the world intimately.