And it isn't even Wednesday

The title of this post is a literary allusion, dontcha know, referring to Phantom Scribbler's weekly Wednesday whine-fests.

So, like, I'm trying to read this book now. But it's too hard, because it was printed in 1971. A paperback, and not on archival paper. The pages are yellowy, brittle, almost falling out. The font and margins are miniscule. You can't hold the book without covering up some of the words with your thumb. What could be less inviting? What was the so-called designer thinking? It's a serious obstacle to my enjoyment of this book. The only book I've ever read that was worse than this is my copy of The Idiot, which has the above-described problems, PLUS the ink smears when you touch it. Gross!

The current book is Out of the Silent Planet, by C.S. Lewis. I actually did make it through this godforsaken book once before, years ago. All I remember is how ugly it was -- the book, that is, not the content. But despite the huge obstacle I'm enjoying it. Here's a sample quote: "For the first time a suspicion that he might be dead and already in the ghost-life crossed his mind. He was trembling, but a hundred mental habits forbade hime to consider this possibility." And here's a very C.S. Lewis-y little phrase: "severe delight."

Well, I'm off to the library at the earliest opportunity to see if they have a better copy there.