This morning, for no particular reason, I found myself thinking about Kurt Cobain. I was 25, in graduate school, happily becoming immersed more and more deeply in eighteenth-century culture, when "Smells Like Teen Spirit" came out in 1991, like a slap on the head. I was 28, unemployed and uncertain of my future, heavily pregnant, and left immobile by a broken ankle, when Kurt died in 1994. I cried. I hadn't cried like that for someone other than myself for a long time – but maybe I was really crying for myself too. Kurt would have liked this shirt.