Since I’ve started reading Atlas Shrugged, I’ve been told by many friends that I’m going to hit a spot where I get mad and want to stop.  Somewhere around page 900, depending on what edition you’ve got.  Well, I have to say, I’m nowhere near that point in the story, and I’m already pretty pissed…

Crappy image quality aside, I’m pretty disappointed.  Granted, this seems to be more of a printing error than an editor’s oversight, and there is no way they can check every book, but I still find stuff like this distracting.  I mean, had everything been lined up perfectly, I’d still be reading.

I guess that’s the thing about print media – the human quality it takes on, without even really meaning to.  The hand that touched the page, that loaded the ink, that slipped the dust jacket on… or more accurately these days, the hand that flipped the switch on the machines and then dug itself back into a bag of Doritos.  But the hand was there, and all of the cheesy fingerprints it leaves behind are what make the end product unique.  Sometimes the colors on the Sunday comics are lined up all funny, and nobody really gives it any thought.  Except me, maybe.

Anyway, I don’t know why I got so worked up.  Maybe it’s just a bummer that the one flaw I come across in an otherwise perfect (so far, at least) piece of fiction is one that is totally not a fault of the author.  But, if it’s gonna happen anywhere, I’m glad it’s on a page about James Taggart :)

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