Someone else

Blogger crashed so I'll have to rewrite this. The second copy of House of Leaves arrived this week. It came in an elderly yellow package, that had done little to prevent whatever event caused a few of the corners to bend. That said, I'm not sending it back after waiting two weeks for it to arrive. I don't really mind its injuries. This new copy's the full colour edition. Though I'm sure it isn't missing any pages, it feels a lot lighter than my original version.

If I look at the husk of packaging now I can see darkness still clings to the far corners of its mouth, despite the fact that it has been opened. I wonder how many days the book slumbered (or paced) in the envelope. How many hours it spent drenched in night. How it existed in that eternal span of time before any eyes set upon it again. I wonder if that black journey means anything, changes anything about the book. It certainly changes how I look at it. As I waited for my cheap oven pizza to 'cook', I walked in ellipses around my kitchen, holding the light copy, reading the opening from where the words spring (or more accurately: drift) off the page, into my mind, through me. It takes a powerful book to do that to you. If you've ever read one, you'll understand the sensation I'm talking about.