i was reading on the crowded subway when a distraught-looking woman stumbled into me.

“please, please help me out,” she said. “please. i’m trying to buy flowers for a funeral arrangement.”

she was african-american, middle-aged, wide-eyed. her words were not addressed to me but to the whole subway car. the slightness of her build belied the strength of her voice. so many things are dying at the moment — an entire free-spending epoch is being laid to rest — that i wondered which particular burial she had in mind.

“my cousin was a good kid,” she said. “please, please. for the funeral arrangement, i need flowers.”

people averted their eyes. early-evening fatigued, city-churned, they did not want to hear talk of funerals, much less help pay for them. they were headed home to hear a new president diagnose the state of america. some shook their heads, thinking, “she’s crazy!”

i returned to my reading, a profile of the british author ian mcewan in the new yorker. i admire mcewan, enjoy his novels, often read them in a sitting or two, but do not feel transported by him.

there is something too carefully plotted in his effects that precludes falling under his spell. his studied brilliance never quite attains greatness. still, he takes a scalpel to sexual need and obsessive violence, the dark undertows of life, in ways that can be utterly compelling.

i read this phrase from mcewan — “narrative tension is primarily about withholding information” — and nodded.

having part of the picture incites an anxiety, the desire to see it whole, completed. i wondered who the stumbling subway woman’s cousin was, how “the kid” died, in a knife fight or from withering illness, what flower arrangement she had in mind (chrysanthemums? gladioli?) — or whether the whole story was made up, just a scam.

piecing together fragments is what we do right now as we emerge from the grand illusion, a time when the human herd frolicked in limitless pastures to the seductive lilt of ponzi promises.

we are trying to get our bearings, find out where the bottom is in order to put one foot in front of the other. bernard madoff’s investment firm did not buy any securities for clients in 13 years. and nobody noticed.

you couldn’t make this stuff up. it’s not only narrative tension that withheld information produces; it’s $50 billion going poof in the night.

as it happened, i’d been reading mcewan that morning on the late john updike in the new york review of books: the profiled as profiler. he quotes updike describing the facts of life as “unbearably heavy, weighted as they are with our personal death. writing, in making the world light — in codifying, distorting, prettifying, verbalizing it — approaches blasphemy.”

but what beautiful, what necessary, blasphemy!

perhaps the age of excess had to end before we could all turn inward just enough to rediscover the gold standard of the perfectly formed phrase, and make connections again. mcewan chooses a sentence from updike’s “couples” that could describe his own work: “nature dangles sex to keep us walking toward the cliff.”

it dangles chance,too.

in the same new york review was anita desai’s piece on azar nafisi, best known for her much-loved “reading lolita in tehran.” i’d just returned from tehran and devoured the review of nafisi’s new book, “things i’ve been silent about: memories.”

“reading lolita” was precisely about turning inward, away from desperate events — in this case a revolution that had betrayed many of its protagonists, offering veils of repression rather than long-sought freedom — to the consolation of great western literature. it was a book of passionate personal transcendence.