Years ago, I inadvertently subscribed to something called “Kindle Unlimited”. If you don’t know, it’s a subscription content provider for the E-reader that allows you to sift through and check out millions of included books, several of which are quite good.
I’m an avid reader and moderate obsessive compulsive, and this app allowed me to borrow books without the horror of revisiting my actual library. Conceptually, I adore libraries but haven’t been to one in person since my enjoyment of Dean Koontz’s newly minted thriller “Frenzy” hit midbook roadblocks, both figurative and literal, in the form of an enormous nasal excretion cementing the middle pages together. That booger forever buggered communal books for me, a visceral reminder of man’s inhumanity to his fellow man and that yes, every physical copy is inevitably a bathroom copy.
Anyhow, that’s where I discovered Benjamin Wallace’s books.