And because he knew Joe had never written anything half that long, he figured this must be John Cowper Powys, novelist, mystic, nutter.
The title, in smaller lettering, confirmed it.
A Glastonbury Romance.
Ben was bewildered, spooked almost out of his head. A book, just one big heavy book, flies off the top shelf, a good nine feet across the fucking room, smashes a lamp. Smashes the only source of light.
'What's it mean?'
'I don't know,' Joe Powys said. He put a hand on the mantelpiece (to stop the hand shaking?).
'But it's all harmless, isn't it?' he said.