A piece of yellowed paper fell out of a homemade book , it was like a smelly pressed flower some lovestruck teen would put in a favorite passage at 15 when they discovered poetry. The page was actually made by the author and snuck in to as many book shops as she could as she realized a year after publication that this was the ending. This was in 1953 and it fell out decades later to a floor in a dorm while a television blared.
This was written as a quick aside by the publisher years later in an interview about his legacy:
At the end of a book on economics the author actually had actually planned an instructional short story you could piece together by reading through lines in the main text in a different order. He made it as a map. It to him made more of a deeper point and had to be seemingly an afterthought as this was the issue that burned about it. The publisher said yes and quietly erased it before publication.
I found in a junk shop after lunch one day in a text about books hard to find:
A 2345 page book self published by a man about his every movement and thought was re-printed as a leather bound volume but not as to anything of the man, his moments or life. It found a burp gasp of note in the late 80’s as a curio, a text that may as well been biting mouse heads on a boardwalk upon purchase.
Anecdote told to me by his nephew who was a powerful lawyer who collected art:
A security guard one night drew lines across the walls of a bank. They ran from bathrooms, to fuse boxes to a switch board , the basement boiler room and 2 different fire extinguishers. He was fired the next day. No one bothered to notice that it formed a text, a short poetic rumination that actually made a lot of sense with depth he hid from others. The man with the white paint the next day covering the walls surely cursed each line.