<p><span><b>Following the acclaimed <i>Dunce</i>, which was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize, comes Mary Ruefle’s latest prose publication <i>The Book</i>.</b></span></p><p><span>True to its bold title, </span><i>The Book</i><span> affirms Mary Ruefle’s legacy as (dubbed by </span><i>Publishers Weekly</i><span>) “the patron saint of childhood and the everyday.” </span><span> </span><span>With the same curiosity found in </span><i>Madness, Rack, and Honey</i><span> and </span><i>My Private Property</i><span>, Ruefle’s prose here feels both omniscient and especially intimate. “It seems I believe in a bygone world though I no longer live there,” she writes. “Will I continue to read about all that is dusty?” In the spirit of friendship, Ruefle generously invites us to query ourselves as readers and thinkers in a world that will eventually endure without us.</span></p>