![]() ![]() For years, January was as molten glass in Locke’s hands, to be spun into the (dutiful, docile, " un-temerarious") shape he liked. January Scaller grew up uneasily lodged with the immensely wealthy Cornelius Locke, her childhood a half-painted picture without her father in it while he disappeared for days, months, to buy off with Locke’s gold coins marvels and oddities from all around the world. ![]() But that isn’t the true beginning of the story. The rush of turning a page and a story beginning. The Ten Thousand Doors of January starts, as great tales often do, with a book. When one enters a door, one must be brave enough to see the other side. Even the morning’s clarity couldn’t snatch that away. ![]() The sensible part of me informed me, patiently, that none of it had any more bearing on real life than a dream, yet in the surreal fuzziness of the night, I felt-on a bone-deep, irrational level-the possibility that I might turn a key, open a door and unlock the mysteries of the world. It seemed hardly credible when I finished reading that I couldn’t follow the words back to a world where this wasn’t mere fiction. ![]() The Ten Thousand Doors of January is almost less a novel than an experience: never have I felt more like I was part of things, moved by the same current, like my soul had disconnected from my body and drifted among fictional souls in a mist somewhere between fantasy and reality. I felt that to speak of this book would be to contain what it did to me, to diminish it somehow. ![]()
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