The fiction-writer has a piece of memoir in the new New Yorker involving being hit by a car, drunken jealous rage, and assault with a hammer. It is gruesome and hilarious, like everything else Shteyngart writes. And it's true—it reads like fiction but you know the New Yorker fact-checked the shit out of it.

Rumor has it it's an excerpt from a forthcoming book-length memoir (!!!), Shteyngart's first book of non-fiction. "I've lived this troubled life so others don't have to," he's said.