The first book of his that I found was misplaced on a shelf of detective stories between a couple of Hillerman novels. I say ‘his’ but with the two initials and a last name, the author could be anyone really, a fifty-year old bald guy or an angst ridden teenage girl tormented by acne and a fear of PE classes. Anyway, the books all have a distinctive cover with bright violet and scarlet motifs. And the story? Total stream of consciousness with layers of philosophy and metaphysics. But I couldn’t put it down! Seriously. Until I read it from cover to cover the book stuck to my hands but truth be told I didn’t want to put it down anyway. I was hooked. I scoured book stores for more, checked libraries, even Googles for more but no, only one book per store, independent booksellers exclusively, no national chains, but there they were, more tomes of the enchanting prose. Each book a singular event. And published on its own. No bar code, no ISBN, not even a price tag. Weirdest of all, I swear the author is writing them just for me.