Grey shapes are emerging from dusty corners and the city looks unexpected and unwholesome in the rain. October mystery is my favorite kind and each year I manage to forget its allure. It's a fortunate amnesia leaving me continuously and vertiginous uneasy-- but in a pleasant way, you know.
Its also pleasant when Books speak and when authors you admire take words from your mouth decades before it occurs to you to spend hundreds of hours figuring out how to say them.
And well too, Mr. Crowley I remember the feeling of ineffable sadness when, turning the orange inside out like your precocious Giordano, the world came bursting forth, real and mutable. The crystalline beauty of narrative of course became trapped in the pulpy innards behind peels that no girl of 10 or 80 could hope to penetrate. Le sigh.
Fortunately for all some happy things came out this week too.
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