When I was young, only the fat books mattered. In bookstores, I gravitated towards the thickest volumes, the highest page count--understandable, I think, after a childhood spent with Dickens, Dumas, and "collected works" (Conan Doyle, London, Poe). 

Now, I find myself attracted to the most elegant slivers--the books between books--with their needle-sharp eloquence, and their pointed prose, and their quick destruction.