There are two kinds of subway books—those are that are compact, frothy, maybe a little smart looking, but always less than three hundred pages in a small font. Then there are those that are best red on the subway—on the screaming, metal hell-beast that merrily gets us where we need to go. The following is from the worst kind of subway book that is best read on the subway.
She did not take her eyes from the wheels of the approaching second carriage. And just at the moment when the midpoint between the two wheels came even with her, she threw her red bag aside and drawing her head between her shoulders, fell on her hands under thee carriage and with a light movement, as if preparing to get up again at once, sank to her kneed. And in that same instant she was horrified at what she was doing. “Where am I? What am I doing? Why?And just as I shut that book somewhere around 79th street, I had a wonderful, terrible, Anna-like idea, having learned nothing in the meanwhile. Why not start War and Peace? That sounds like a smashing idea! How do I swing this bag to jump on in?
