I came upon this book in, of all places, a bookstore in New York city that specialized in mysteries and started to read it on a very cold, windy winter afternoon. As I read it and became lost in the wonderment of the book and the writing, I found myself reading more slowly..something I do when I want the book "to last" forever. Within a few days I had a full-blown case of the flu so later wondered if the book itself was as amazing as I thought, or whether I was just under the early influence of an impending illness. To make matters more difficult I'd lent the book to someone and could no longer remember the title.
Some years later, I saw the again-familiar title in a bookstore in California and bought it to reread out of curiosity. The book was as bizarre and strange and oddly redemptive as it was the first time but I could never persaude friends to read it.
How great to read that others have been so moved by Whittemore's writings.