This book is completely delirious. Every inanimate object is alive in some horrid, pulsing way: the night seethes with stars, the floriated wallpaper opens eyes and strains ears to spy on the family in their cavernous, dusty rooms, while what we think of as reality is an enormous empty theater. Only the scene immediately before us retains its characteristics while everywhere our gaze does not fall is crumbling as we speak into decay and plaster and sawdust, unable to keep its form without our concentration. Equally disturbing is Schulz's work as an artist. I wish the stories were packaged with his illustrations!