On Saturday, the Wall Street Journal published an essay by the playwright and screenwriter David Mamet, entitled “Charles Dickens Makes Me Want To Throw Up.” As it turns out, the essay was just one chapter in the forthcoming book, “David Mamet’s Physiological Responses To Classic Literature.” While we must wait for publication to fully understand precisely why Mr. Mamet takes issue with so many well known writers, a small selection of leaked chapter headings provide some sense of his thinking.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning makes me itch in places I can’t reach.

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F. Scott Fitzgerald’s words yield the sensation of getting lemon juice in a paper cut.

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Samuel Beckett causes my elbow to feel like I just whacked my funny bone, the name of which incidentally is a complete misnomer because it hurts like hell.

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Mark Twain precipitates acid reflux if I read him after 7 pm.

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Leo Tolstoy makes me break out in hives and if anyone tells you calamine lotion helps they’re just plain wrong.

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Franz Kafka gives me a stuffy nose and you try finding a Neti Pot in the Hamptons in the middle of summer.

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Anton Chekhov causes me to go into anaphylactic shock and do you know how much those freaking Epi-pens cost?

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Reading Shakespeare aloud in college gave me tinnitus which is why I listen to music all the time.

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Jonathan Swift gives me chest gas that mimics the onset of a heart attack but isn’t and don’t tell me it’s just an anxiety attack because that simply pisses me off.

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Emily Dickinson prompts me to weep uncontrollably and I hate showing anything resembling human emotion other than disdain.

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Moliere gives me the hiccups and the only way to stop them is if someone sneaks up behind me and shouts, “Look, it’s Lindsay Crouse!”

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Ernest Hemingway soothes me. Like a man.