Few books have captured the essence, the profundity; the all-inclusive story that is our existence as this set has. One can only but marvel at the intrinsic genius that was at work in their creation, even if their creator to this day remains anonymous. We shall loiter in gratitude so long as civilization can continue to duplicate these tomes of knowledge, insight, and above all else, wisdom. Black blank book sets the tone, and indeed the expectations of the reader high, as a tale of incredible beauty, if not stark simplicity. One is left with a profound feeling of vacuity, and mystification, and it reads with terrible cadence. Green blank book carries on in the uneasy tradition of its predecessor, and delves deeper into the realm of non-existence than Sartre could ever have hoped to devise. I was left with the acute notion that nothingness and void were but hues of the same color. Burgundy blank book was a bit of a let down. It was too preachy for my liking and seemed to repeat the exact same theme throughout. One was under the impression indeed that the author was running out of ideas, and had explored with too great an avarice the subject of blankness. All of a sudden Brown blank book breaks out on the scene with a rapacious clarity, and the path is again defined with crystal clear ambiguity. The reader is in bliss, and can delight in all things tenuous and innocuous, the sins of Burgundy graciously forgiven. Blue blank book ends the series in a sober, and melancholy character. One reads with a specific trepidation, knowing that it is the final installment of a fantastically precise series. Happily the shortcomings of Burgundy are in fact reconciled, as the mediocrity of the work was designed to be thus. One is left with reflective respect for the kind of stellar mind capable of manipulating the emotions of its reader with so little effort. I am left in awe, and any who are not just don't get it, do they?