RIP-TVRIP-TVRIP-TVRIP-TV
RIP-TVRIP-TVRIP-TVRIP-TV
RIP-TVRIP-TVRIP-TVRIP-TV
RIP-TVRIP-TVRIP-TVRIP-TV
2001-02-17
On my sister’s bed is a book I mistook for a shoe box, at first—the fourth Harry Potter, weighing in at 700 pages. When I finished volume one I asked my sister whether the hardback editions had more illustrations. They do not. This mystifies me—no, I’m sorry, this I understand, and it angers me. I understand (and my sistah does too) that these books are being rushed into print by a publisher with no more desire than their author (because it would probably come out of her cut) to share the profits with an artist or two; that artists take too long in any case. While the iron is hot, they are striking—in fact they're publishing the anvils.