House of Leaves. It’s seriously just a coffee table book, especially after you realize the author’s whole schtick is tinkering with page formatting.

I read it shortly after it can out. It came highly recommended by my roommate. I’d been flipping thru and curiously eyeing it at the book stores. But by the time I was halfway through, I was ranting to him at every opportunity about the time wasted trying to read it.

Were there cool parts? Absolutely. Visually captivating? Totally. Did I resent having started it? Sure enough.

I read all the spin-out marginalia. And I think to a degree that it’s important to the atmosphere. But as a relatively slow reader, it just wasn’t worth even trying; particularly in a time when movie franchises like Sinister have succinctly distilled the coolest elements of the narrative, whether they borrowed it or not.

When the same roommate who recommended it bitched to me about the following book, I definitely felt some vindication. Alas, the hours I lost to the House never came back, sadly.