l'enfer, c'est les autres.

my ebook of unseen academicals has NO FOOTNOTES.
i sit down to a nice bar of chocolate and my terry pratchett, only to have my dreams of silent rumbling laughter (giggle jiggle, for those of you in the know) and warm melt-in-my-mouth chocolate goodness dashed at the very first line. the very first one.
a little asterisk after a seemingly-ordinary phrase (It was midnight in Ankh-Morpork's Royal Art Museum*) that mocks me with its promise of more. ...what royal art museum? art by royalty? royalty as subjects of art? or perhaps there's no real connection at all between the royalty and the art. perhaps some little old queen just inaugurated it once, a long time ago. maybe the wind flew up and revealed her yellow polka dot panties as she did it, resulting in a tremendous scandal. maybe she wasn't wearing panties at all. maybe it's performance art. if so, was there a butt double? maybe there was once a shootout there, a bit like the one at the guggenheim in the international. maybe.
what was terry pratchett trying to tell me, damn it?
whatever it is, i. is. wanting. to. know.
even the next line (Glenda sleeps in an ancient iron bed.*). there are so many possibilities for interesting stories about beds that i don't even know how to express in words how i feel about the lack of said accompanying footnote. it breaks my heart a little, that. it really really does.
someone,
someone (THIS person) shall have to answer for this.

more later.