There’s a certain
Very Rapturously Reviewed
novel that I purchased, lemming-like, the year it came out. I have read one hundred pages of it but I have never finished it. I liked those first hundred pages well enough, but um, the book itself was awkward to hold in bed. I skimmed the rest and read the last chapter and called it a day. I have since used it as a doorstopper. (In our old apartment, we had a door that used to blow shut for no reason whatsoever.) I have killed spiders with it. I am still not above pretending to have read this book, which is why I can’t tell you the title.