I cannot lie that the spine of this book is precisely what drew my attention to it. I have never been “ashamed” that I judge books by their covers – that is to say, I buy books based on their covers. Once read, the cover has little to do with my opinion, though I may make commentary on the appropriateness of it. I also cannot say that I am usually disappointed by my selection; books that look like [old] books are generally about books, or other literary things, and I tend to enjoy those. The Meaning of Night by Michael Cox was no exception.

This is one of those books you’ll want to set aside some time to read, not only because it’s very long, but because it’s so extremely well written that you won’t want to set it down. Ever. Not even to work. Not even to do daily tasks. I found myself carrying this book around with me everywhere I went, bumping into things and people on the way. Unsmartly, I read while waiting for red lights to turn. When I was out of the house, I visited bookstores just to pile through a chapter or two while I had some time to spare (a book of this size would not fit in the purse I was carrying around this month). Rarely does a book capture me so much as to distract me from everything, but this book did. I wanted to know about Edward, his motivations, why he killed the red-haired man and then went for oysters (this is not a spoiler; it’s the first line in the book).