A book is like a box. A closed cover, like a hinged lid, can conceal almost anything—rare manuscripts, smuggled loot, obscure jokes, coded directives, erotic drawings, antique toys, strange old maps of secret places, recipes for disaster, padlocked diaries, forged passports, voodoo dolls, garter belts, hand grenades, flasks of gin, flights of fancy, folies a deux, menages a trois, and sundry other exits from the everyday, all of them leading directly—elsewhere.