As a bedridden child, I would stem the ennui of daily life by immersing myself in books. It was no hyperbole to say that I had more books than friends. To me, each book was an envoy from a more exciting world. On one particularly banal evening, my eyes wandered across this paragraph:
"On maps, the image of a book serves as visual synecdoche for a library."
At this point I realized something had gone awry, and I was reading a self-referential passage sprinkled with words commonly mispronounced by people who read lots of books; the epitome of embarrassment.
