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368 pages, Paperback
First published October 20, 2004
And Peter Straub’s metafictional In the Night Room compares favorably to anything, anything, written in the past twenty years or so, by anyone.
"Where are you?" she said. "Are you there? Ah, I see, you are there. My goodness. Don't you think you should sort of wiggle out of that stupid thing you're wearing? You're so huge, you're going to strangle yourself."
I wiggled out of the stupid thing, my panting organ even harder for having been so blatantly flattered, and she shed her bra and her little tighty-whity with what seemed one fluid motion, and after that a kind of paradise opened before us. When I entered her, it was like entering paradise. Within her, I felt miraculously, blissfully at home---in the perfect place at last. I fell in love---that's the corniest, most banal, and truest way to say it. Before, I had felt as though I was falling in love, and now I had completed the journey. I was there, I wanted to hold her, cherish her, celebrate her for the rest of my life. It happened that quickly. I felt cleaved to Willy Patrick, as if we had one soul. We were like the gods depicted in erotic transport on half-ruined temples lost in the middle of great jungles. In the end, we seemed to flow together, to wear each other's skin and fine ecstatic release as one four-legged, four0armed, two-headed organism.
"God," Willy breathed. "You're the author I want when I'm depressed, all right. I'm going to stop fretting about agency. I don't care. I've never been fucked like that before, and I want more of it."