To the Editor: A treasure box of a review. A treasure set of Matryoshka dolls or opening tiers of a lotus's petals. First, a review by Cumming. Alan Cumming! So intelligent, so perceptive. The piece, reviewing Lapine's book, was itself a satisfying feast, varied and prolonged. He riffed on science and art, and those who practice these multidimensional disciplines. Within the review, Lapine's book. James Lapine! So agile, so complicated. I was satiated by the review and now am ravenous to read the book. Within the book, the remarkable collaboration with Sondheim. Stephen Sondheim! So soaringly inventive, so endlessly generative. I now yearn for anything and everything ever created by Sondheim, but especially this surprising and suspenseful tale. Why, oh, why, did I never see the incomparable Patinkin in his portrayal? And at last, within the Lapine-Sondheim story, the Seurat painting itself. Georges Seurat! So precise, so impenetrable. I am newly lost in the painting, wandering among its shadows and peering into the faces under their straw brims. I am lying on the mysterious grass knolls of Seurat's garden, satisfied and inspired, ravished and slightly stoned.