A short chapter from Loren Ipsum, entitled ‘Le Hareng Rouge’, appears in Minor Literature[s]. 

The elements were leading him a merry dance. The wind, in particular, was winding him up. He paused to remonstrate with his umbrella, which seemed to have developed a mind of its own since blowing inside out. Its erratic movements resembled those of a divination rod gone haywire. Buffeted on all sides, the man gripped the shaft with both hands, holding on for dear life. Oh, the gusto of those gusts! Loren pictured him soaring away like Mary Poppins — an unlikely prospect in view of his corpulence. Besides, the disjointed canopy lay presently in a puddle at his feet. The man gazed ruefully at the carnage of twisted ribs. Turning his chubby face skywards, he closed his eyes for a few seconds while the righteous rain streamed down his hirsute features. Ah, those rivers of rivulets! Whether he was communing with God, steeling himself for the next stage of his pilgrimage, or simply weathering the weather, Loren knew not. In fact, he was adrift on a vulva-shaped rowing boat in the middle of a fjord, sailing into darkness. The kind of absolute darkness where you can see the light, if only you look hard enough. And there it was, shimmering in the distance, and he was tingling all over and everything everywhere was growing luminous and numinous. He was alive. Right now, he was alive. Drenched — but alive. It was pouring and he was porous; part of everything. Never again would he take existence for granted. He resolved, there and then, to spurn the dead hand of stultifying routine and seek out the spiritual in the everyday. So he beat on, borne back ceaselessly onto the ground he had just covered, but eventually inching forwards through hard-won incremental triumphs. At a glacial pace, he thus contrived to travel the length of the bistro from whence Loren, transfixed, had observed the whole saga. This, she thought, is what happens when nothing happens. Nothing was happening before her very eyes. …