![]() ![]() “You’re always leaving some shit,” says my friend, who’s with me in the back of the Uber.Īlways is a stretch. I’d had it on the nightstand for sure but had picked it up in the middle of a phone conversation to relay something I’d read earlier that day. Left it behind, abandoned on the floor, shunted beneath the fringe of the bedspread for housekeeping to find and do God-knows-what with. My copy of The View from the Cheap Seats. ![]() ![]() (I had remarked to the clerk that they were selling a nice edition of another Gaiman book for far cheaper than I would’ve expected.)Īnd now I’ve lost it. I remember buying it at The Little Apple Bookshop in York on a chilly, late November evening. I’d taken it to work and to casual outings, squeezing bits of reading into the in-between parts of life. I’d underlined and bracketed things that stood out: wisdom on mythology and layering and what makes stories work. I’d been thoroughly enjoying every essay, speech, and feverish opinion or note of praise. The book is Neil Gaiman’s View from the Cheap Seats -over 500 pages long, 280-something of which I’d been making my way through while traveling by plane and train to and around southern France. That feeling is accompanied by uncharacteristically vivid recall: me slipping into sleep, exhausted from three days of vacationing, the book in my hand sliding onto the floor. ![]() I’m in the back of an Uber to the airport when dread sweeps over me. ![]()
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