There were some fair American costumes and faces in the crowd, but it was essentially Quebeckian.

I tried to animate myself to behave a little more social, turning in circles a couple of times, making a slinky stepping pattern, and generally quickening my behavior in order to appear more alert and excited. I was not picked. I was downstruck. I felt the world had collapsed for me!

This has led me to a new appreciation of bibliopoesy, the making of books, and bibliopegy, bookbinding as a fine art.

What is it that penetrates, that permeates, that contradicts even itself, a life not life, an unevil evil, a familiar romance?