Ah man, I really need to read more of Daniel Handler’s work. A real reminder of just how beautifully he writes. A memoir of sorts in 13 chapters (how many else?) but also in another way a catalogue or library of the scraps that form his influences, the Baudelaire poems, the myriad books, the operas and songs and everything else. He writes touchingly about how everyone’s scraps develop into one’s own library as such, and it’s such a lovely way to look at the world. The anecdotes about writing A Series Of Unfortunate Events are comparatively sparse, but that’s not the main attraction anyway. Instead, it’s a love letter to a life built on a bedrock of books, and it makes me glad that he and I shared that experience at least.