Lost in a Good Book

O’er a plan to venge myself upon that cursed Thursday Next—

This Eyre affair, so surprising, gives my soul such loath despising,

Here I plot my temper rising, rising from my jail of text.

‘Get me out!’ I said, advising, ‘pluck me from this jail of text—

or I swear I’ll wring your neck!’

He was still pissed off, make no mistake about that. I read on:

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in my bleak September

When that loathsome SpecOps member tricked me through ‘The Raven’s’ door

Eagerly I wished the morrow would release me from this sorrow,

Then a weapon I will borrow, sorrow her turn to explore—

I declare that obnoxious maiden who is little but a whore—

Darkness hers—for evermore!

‘Still the same old Jack Schitt,’ I murmured.

‘I won’t let him lay a finger on you, Miss Next,’ assured Schitt-Hawse. ‘He’ll be arrested before you can say ketchup.’

So, gathering my thoughts, I offered my apologies to Miss Havisham for being an impetuous student, cleared my mind and throat and then read the words out loud, large as life and clear as a bell.

There was a distant rumble of thunder and the flutter of wings close to my face. An inky blackness fell and a wind sprang up and whistled about me, tugging at my clothes and flicking my hair into my eyes. A flash of lightning briefly illuminated the sky about me, and I realised with a start that I was high above the ground, hemmed in by clouds filled with the ugly passion of a tempest in full spate. The rain struck my face like a heavy damp cloak and I saw in the feeble moonlight that I was being swept along close to a large storm cloud, illuminated from within by bolts of lightning. Just when I thought that perhaps I had made a very big mistake by attempting this feat without proper instruction, I noticed a small dot of yellow light through the swirling rain. I watched as the dot grew bigger until it wasn’t a dot but an oblong, and presently this oblong became a window, with frames, and glass, and curtains beyond. I flew closer and faster, and just when I thought I must collide with the rain-splashed glass I was inside, wet to the skin and quite breathless.

The mantel clock struck midnight in a slow and steady rhythm as I gathered my thoughts and looked around. The furniture was of highly polished dark oak, the drapes a gloomy shade of purple, and the wall coverings, where not obscured by bookshelves or morbid mezzotints, were a dismal brown colour. For light there was a solitary oil lamp that flickered and smoked from a poorly trimmed wick. The room was in a mess; a bust of Pallas lay shattered on the floor and the books that had once graced the shelves were now scattered about the room with their spines broken and pages torn. Worse still, some books had been used to rekindle the fire, a choked profusion of blackened paper had fallen from the grate and now covered the hearth. But to all of this I paid only the merest attention. Before me was the poor narrator of The Raven himself, a young man in his