This book really goes heavy on every possible Books Are Magic cliché. Recursive stories, libraries and librarians, the protagonist reads his own story, stories stories stories and all the trimmings: dusty old books and tarnished keys and so many candles and secret societies with ancient and arbitrarily cruel customs and of course magic doors, fortune tellers, and masquerade balls. And mysterious elegant women and notes slipped into pockets and New York City on a snowy night. And richly appointed underground caverns and “no time to explain now, just follow me” and cats and sinister invitations to tea and the mysterious almost-mute girl and grad school and whimsical personifications of animals and astronomical bodies. And an orrery. And tarot cards.

All this and I’m only a quarter through the book.

I’m not saying it’s bad! It just really has the subgenre thoroughly covered.

@ranjit i had very similar thoughts, it was a struggle to get through at times, but i dont regret reading it