Bests & Worsts Reviews from Amazon

Before starting this review, I have to confess, although I once read a copy of this book, I didn't actually pay for it. Allow me to explain. After finding an impressive, ornate wood-bound copy of "The History of the Woodburytype" (likely the only one of its kind) on a shelf in a local bookstore, I immediately picked it up and started leafing through its pages. Oddly, the curator of the establishment saw me looking through it and rushed over to tell me it was "not safe". "But it's just a history of one of the most beautiful and durable of all photographic processes, and the life of its inventor, Walter B. Woodbury!", I protested. "How can a book like that not be safe? It's not like it has flying dragons in it, or it's going to suck me into an alternate dimension where I become a part of the narrative." But he wouldn't answer. I dug into my pocket to pay for the book but, finding only a few pennies and a green Skittle, I was brokenhearted that I wouldn't be able to dive into the fantasy world of chromated gelatin film and photo negatives, but resigned to my fate. When suddenly, something inside me took over. I left a note to the bookseller promising to return it, grabbed the book, and sprinted for the door, never looking back. It was raining that day, as I nestled into my attic, Walter Woodbury's life and accomplishments in my lap, eating my PB&J and apple my mother had packed for me. I followed Walter from Australia to the Far East, from Java and back to London, almost hoping that this was a story that would never end. As I reached the final page, lo and behold, Walter B. Woodbury called out my name within the volume I held in my hands! "You! Reading this!" he said; "I say, my world of photographic processes and Far East travels is dying, my dear boy! The only way to save it is to give me a new name." "BUT THAT'S IMPOSSIBLE!" I yelled, to no one in particular. "Please, my good man! If you don't speak my new name, I shall wither away to 19th Century obscurity!" I began to believe. I rushed to the attic window, flung it open, and yelled "MOON CHILD!" I into the misty night air. But nothing happened. I began shouting MOON CHILD! at the top of my lungs, over and over, for the next 18 hours consecutively. Finally, sirens began to blare below me. My neighbors had called the police after hearing a delusional lunatic screaming all through the night. Long story short, don't buy this book. It's a riveting account of the life and achievements of one of photography's greatest pioneers, but it will make you into a petty thief and then hallucinate really badly, and you might possibly wind up in the drunk tank.