The Book has arrived.
It’s on my desk here, off to one side, standing on its end because somehow, I couldn’t lay it down flat like the other books stacked in piles around the Wren’s Nest.
Every now and then I glance over at it. The title on the dustcover, “Against the Day” and the name of the author “Thomas Pynchon,” and very small three-quarters of the way down “A Novel” whisper to me, “Come on ... step in ... read ... read ...”
Pages one to 25, no more. I’m saving it for tomorrow. I plan to have a notebook handy, so I can jot.
OK, I’ll admit it. I read the first graf within a minute of lifting it out of its packing box. I had to ... I had to know. Took 15 seconds. Closed the book, put it on the desk, and here it’s been ever since.
I swear it’s moved a couple of times; I’ve caught it out of the corner of my eye. Naturally, when I look directly at it, it stops.
Fifteen seconds of reading. One graf. The image evoked with those few words is still ... floating ... around my head. With glee.
This is gonna be some book. I hope my fellow Chumps are ready ...