We have to begin at the end: Fanny Howe died in July. As she once wrote, “Plot can only be understood retroactively, and by the time a story is understood, most of the questions that were important earlier have been folded over into bewilderment.” She leaves behind her a bewildering and beautiful body of work; at 84, she was the author of dozens of books of experimental, polymorphic prose-poetry-philosophy, many of them out of print at the time of her death. Howe was the humblest of geniuses; a