For reasons I won't get into just now, I'm doing some background reading on Sylvia Plath.
Among other books, I ordered Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams, a collection of short stories, essays, and diary excerpts, and it arrived on my doorstep earlier this week. Apart from the fabulosity of that title and wishing it were the name of a punk rock band from my youth, I am loving the packaging.
I picked a 1997 hardcover edition from Buccaneer Books, paying the design no mind, because it was the cheapest and most readily available option.
It's grey. No dust jacket. No title embossed on the front, nor printing nor symbol of any kind. Just grey.
The spine displays the usual specifics, but from most angles the book is a slab of grey.
For some reason, all this grey tickles me pink. I hope this will be enough to keep me from sticking my head in the oven. If, however, you do see me slipping into a deep funk over the coming weeks, please take all my Sylvia Plath books away from me.