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Michael Schneider - Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania (USA):

April 04, 2001:
This book has several volumes, packaged in a box, and they can’t
    get out. This book is a bumper sticker. It says Kill Your
    Television.

April 07, 2001:
This is a book about a man who leans forward as he
    walks and lowers his head so his beard brushes against his chest.
    You can hear him purring from within like a cat. Turn the
    page. Keep turning. See?
This book is pungent like green onions I pull from the garden
    in spring before dinner, the dirt that clings to them rinsed away
    in the sink, white snaky roots wriggling down from the head sliced
    off, a layer of skin peeled away from the shiny stalk. Eat
    t
This book, which points fingers and names names, is not spoken about
    in polite company. It refuses to turn a blind eye. It does
    not avert from the carrion stench of truth. It says Henry Kissinger,
    you are a war criminal. It says Ronald Reagan, you murdere

April 10, 2001:
I have waited half my life to read this book, so why
    haven't I read it?
This book was composed in monotype Bembo, by Michael and Winifred, and
    printed on Monadnock Dulcet text, which gets old like Michael and Winifred
    but never yellows.
This book has no balls. It's called the zen of tennis.
This book is stifling as a hothouse full of hyacinth.
This book is called Memoirs of a Masochist, and no one understands
    why the author tortured himself to write it. It is written in
    blood dried on vellum. I run my fingers across the leaves. Is
    it a book, or flesh and blood?

April 11, 2001:
This book, called the Rhetoric of Confusion, is not yet written and
    has torn the hair by its roots from the head of its
    author, who cries and pulls the covers over her head, refusing to
    write it. It's also called the Rhetoric of Contusion and it's printed
This book, because it's the color of nightfall, which is the color
    of a bruise, reminds me of the bovine word "buttocks," which I
    first saw in a book filled with Holsteins, Guernseys and Black Angus,
    herds of them roaming in grassy plots between the lines
This book taught me to hypnotize myself. It never worked. The whole
    story is enough to make a grown man cry. I'm a grown
    man now, and I cry sometimes when I read books.
This book made me cry when I read it years ago, and
    I can still see myself stretched across the bed, unwilling to put
    it down. It's a silly, sentimental book, and it was a good
    cry.
This book made me cry only two weeks ago. It's about a
    man who reads books to a woman. He read to her in
    bed, much as I read to my wife some nights. When I
    wonder why she loves me, I think this is why.