House of Leaves [Book Review]

Imagine a house that is bigger on the inside than it is on the outside.

My relationship with Mark Z. Danielewski's House of Leaves began with a conversation in which I claimed—several times, quite proudly—that I don't get scared by scary books.

Horror movies? No thank you. When it comes to scary movies I am admittedly a complete wuss. Like for real. I still occasionally complain about my traumatic viewing of Shaun of the Dead.

But a book? At one point in high school I really tried to get into the whole horror fiction genre, but it didn't do a thing for me. I was often bored and more often just grossed-out by the "scary books" I attempted. But I've never been scared by a book.

Until House of Leaves.

Me saying that this novel—if you can even call it a "novel" (more on that in a minute)—is scary doesn't really describe the experience of sitting down with its daunting 700+ pages.

Reading House of Leaves made me feel at times both deeply disturbed and extremely exhausted; it can be thought-provoking and also downright annoying; this is a book that made me literally jump out of my seat with fright (ask Kelsey, she was there) and it made me laugh out loud; reading Leaves can be described as an extremely unsettling and lonely experience.

I really recommend this book very highly, but my recommendation comes with a disclaimer:

Reading this book is WORK.

Danielewski toys with the very conventions of modern prose. Half of the narrative is revealed through expansive footnotes and appendices. Entire plot interpretations hinge on the author's use of varying typographical fonts and text colors. At one point reading this book required me to hold it up to a mirror.

Yes. It's that kind of book.

You really should seriously consider reading it. But like I said, it's not a leisurely endeavor. I didn't dare attempt to tackle Leaves on the hustle-and-bustle of the subway—most of my reading was exiled to quiet corners of my apartment where I could temporarily isolate myself from distracting sights, sounds, and human beings.

But it's a rewarding story. And it is—in addition to many other things—quite scary.

Honesty

So I have unceremoniously returned to my blog after a months-long hiatus. This is the part where I should talk about how I've rekindled my passion for blogging—how I'm back for good. But that wouldn't be fair to you or me. We deserve better. Who knows how long I'll keep up the blogging this time. Let's face it, I'm a mystery. I could write another post tomorrow. Or I may wait until the wind changes.

You know, like Marry Poppins.

Only I spend less time riding in English fox hunts that take place inside of chalk drawings. In fact, I hardly ever do that.

And this truly (more or less) gets at the theme of this post.

Honesty.

This sign was posted on the service entrance of my apartment building. Wow. Check out that honesty.

I'd like to salute whoever took the time to create and display this sign. It really is such a human gesture. It's as if the sign is saying, "You know what? Life isn't perfect. Sometimes things don't work the way they're supposed to. You can try your luck, it could be your night. Or you might have to walk around the building and use the main entrance."

No empty promises. No platitudes. No half-hearted apologies.

No "Sorry for the inconvenience :) -The Mgmt"

Honesty.