Tyler

The Mathemagician from The Phantom Tollbooth has been real quiet since this dropped

I've never been so quickly hooked. Since the intro bade me consider the preconceptions and even physicality involved with embarking on a read, my consciousness re: the act of reading has exploded. Now I can’t help but adjourn from the commotion of the bus and give everything of myself to the tomes toted in my lap. Or perhaps the substance of the stuff is made in those moments where my gaze wanders?…sometimes both or neither

Anyway, this is mildly philosophical but so playful. How could I call its narratives a gimmick when Calvino is often anticipating and eluding my exact attitudes?

Nearly perfect but for hard and unfocused male gaze (unless you’re among those readers privately seeking this, too). I expect anyone who reads any fiction for any reason would find some resonance here

The haters just feeling crabby

Ale-stuporous, autoerotique Efflorescence.

Gothickally depressive and Westeringly manic, maniatropick Detectors a-jangle.

Blinking in Exhaustion by now chronick, bursting into tears inconsolable.

Encyclopedistick, perhaps even Masonick.

Never mind when,— shall it end?

An enervated wreck at 18, I was casting about for an answer to sorry convictions and an assurance of boyish entitlements when I should have been reading this. I’m not ashamed, and neither should you be. I’m often asking myself where Le Guin has been all my life