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 …