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Once upon a time--in 1971, if you must know--I read a slender book that seemed to me original, droll, and mysteriously precious. Wrapped in a posterish Roy Lichtenstein dust jacket, and set in narrow-measure boldface sans serif, Frederic Tuten's "The Adventures of Mao on the Long March" was a deadpan amalgam of quotation, parody, history, and fanciful fiction whose central image is that of Mao Tse-tung as a keen fan of Godard films and Minimal art, a Pateresque aesthete with a billion people on his hands. In an age when Mao posters adorned college dorms and Donald Barthelme ruled the nouvelle vague of fiction, the book made more sense than you might think; crediting a ...