I was interested in the story of "The Body Artist" because, as some of you know, a "body artist" is the name we in my profession (architecture) have given to those who actually design the outer part of a building, the nonfunctional but beautifully pleasing visible part. I was such a body artist before my eyesight disappeared. Yes, I'm a blind architect. Good only for cold equations and what is somewhat obscurely referred to as "business" consultations. In any event, "The Body Artist" is NOT about architecture. It is a very numbing story about a woman named Goody Michaelson who runs a bed and breakfast establishment in the Outer Banks. One day a huge storm rushes up the coast and Mrs. Michaelson refuses to leave the hotel. She is carried off to a tropical island off the coast of Madagascar where she learns the homely folkways of the tribe of intelligent Lemurs she encounters there and devotes the rest of her life to her fruit collection, forgetting about the "personal service" standard that had marked her days in the hospitality industry. I don't know, I thought it dragged a little after we arrived in the Madagascar part but, heck, I'm not the one who has to read aloud, it's my long-suffering but essentially functional wife. Think I'll keep her. As to the book, I sawed it into four equally sized sections, drilled a 3/4" hole in the center of each, and bolted the four together. Beautiful little piece, hearkening back to my old "body artist" days if I do say so myself. How I wish I could go back to active design.