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I want a novel that speaks to me a language I don’t fully understand, such that I never know if I’m being seduced, or being roundly mocked.
I want a novel that will overtake me in the outside lane, laughing and waving, *while I’m reading it*.
I want a novel with Good Teeth, and Lots of Them.
I want a novel with the texture and action of pumice stone on skin.
I want a novel with a *hundred* words for snow, and no call for any of them.
I want a novel that comes with a little sachet of salt to sprinkle into it before reading.
I want a novel with the pages on the outside and the cover on the inside.
I want a novel that you can only read when you’re not both in the same room.
I want a novel that eats its young.
I want a novel made entirely of syllables.
A novel that can drink me under the table, then drink the table.
I want a novel that will walk my dog for me.
I want a novel that will walk *me* like a dog.
I want a novel that will walk *me* like a dog.
I want a novel the size of my little finger.
I want a novel that lives under my bed and makes sinister growling noises when I try to get up in the middle of the night to use the toilet.
I want a novel with ants in its pants.
I want a novel - no, wait - covered, entirely covered, from head to toe, in ants.
I want a novel that falls asleep before I do.
I want a novel the size of my entire head.
I want nicely built entirely from fourth walls.
I want a novel with arms, legs, hands, feet, a head, eyes, ears, nose, hair, fingernails, toenails, skin, and all internal organs. Also, genitalia. No elbows.
I want a novel that’s happy to put its whole hand inside my mouth.
I want a novel that will put me up for sale.
I want a novel that will talk about me behind my back.
I want a novel that will hover in the corner of my peripheral vision for hours at a time.
I want a novel that will miss me when I& #39;m gone.
