And indeed, unmoored to this implement that usually gives me the (erroneous) security that a beautiful sentence has not slipped through my hands unheeded and unremembered, I realized I was right to have foreseen this linguistic glutting, this constant shimmer. Every conscious underline inevitably makes an unwitting statement about every non-underline, provoking a whole host of annotation anxieties I decided to forgo my pen and take my leave of the whole vicious quagmire entirely. I experienced the strange sensation of forcing myself to read a book without a pen in my hand. To stop judging or wondering if it will be meet to turn the page-for it shall be. It felt delightful to relax to unclench the fist of the mind to feel secure that the next turn of phrase would be intelligent-would corporealize original thought and exude a flavor of empathy. Popova refers to a deeper culture than the popular (the real, perhaps? the universal? the delicately human?), and we hardly notice (for hundreds of pages, as she gently skittles through the lees) that we have not breathed the harsh artificiality of banality, posturing, tired phrases that form so painfully the deadening mist of our world. I do not know how to speak of the poetry in this book because I can barely dare to touch it-but let me make no mistake by beginning with this statement: it is there, everywhere. This book has been important to me for several reasons, one of which is that it is the one of the extraordinarily few I have read that was written by a living author. There is beauty in this book, and there is genius there is ink and fiber and a crinkling of pages, and yet it lives in my hands like a beating heart.
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