Nicholson Baker’s The Mezzanine is ostensibly about nothing. An account of a man who purchases shoelaces and milk during his lunch break. That’s it.
But within that hour, Baker stretches the mundane into something strangely majestic. A 120-page meditation on escalators, office supplies, bathroom etiquette, and the fragile genius of product packaging. It’s one of the funniest books I’ve read in years.
What really struck me, though, wasn’t just the humour — it was the tactile world that is evoked. The protagonist lives in a clearly analogue age, where staplers clunk, paper is sacred, and the objects of daily life are designed with care and purpose. Reading it felt like being in a beautifully curated stationery shop where every item has a story.
The footnotes—sprawling, frequent, and delightful—mimic the way thoughts naturally branch and loop back. At times they’re longer than the main text. But rather than feel cluttered, they create a layered, rhythmic inner monologue. If your brain tends to zigzag like mine, it feels like home.
This isn’t a review. I’ve already forgotten some of the book (it was for our anti-book book club some months ago). But it left a strange comfort behind. A sense that someone else, even a fictional someone, thinks the way I do—treating the trivial with the seriousness it sometimes deserves.