It was terrible...easily one of the worst months of my life. "Just stop. You're only making yourself miserable," Miles suggested, and over and over again at that. But that just wasn't my style. I'm not a quitter. This process usually takes me less than a day-complete, yet this particular task spread tortuously over thirty.
It promised satisfaction, but that's publisher-propaganda for you—the devilry of a hundred-word summary that easily illuminates every point of interest in print. "I can't do it, Baby," I would whimper every night. "It hurts...too painful. Throw me the car keys—I want to gouge out my eyes." He never complied, though I am sure it called upon all of his faculties to ignore my request.
Yet, I persevered...amazingly, with my sanity intact. If only I could say that the end justified the means, or that my diligence paid off in the end: neither could be further from the truth. No, I fell into a chasm wherein many have fallen before...a deep gouge of anti-intrigue in the makeup of reality and engrossing imagination alike.
I am not left with a mind more enlightened, or a mind thoroughly entertained—but instead: a gnawed-through lower lip, permanent crescent-shaped nail indentations in my palm, and 3 remaining hairs upon my head. It is with these battle wounds that I declare, "I read Codex by Lev Grossman."
