You know, I’ve always admired this book – its bookness, its rectangularity. Dear Mother of God. . . so many pages. Within this jacket lie mittens, scarves, snow and mohair. Is that tobacco smoke I smell? Why, here’s the hope I lost in 1975! The trees milled to make this book surely went down singing like divas. There’s something contagious in the mood of it, the way its heft surrenders to my hands. Holding it, I fill with this book’s book–ishness. So, what was the plot again? This wasn’t the one with the train station, was it? Ach, hold up a second, how does this end?