Bolts of cloth unfurl in a shop like living things, rippling with colour and secret intention, while outside the streets soften and sag in the summer heat like a body losing its form. Bruno Schulz's 1934 collection transforms his hometown of Drohobycz into a mythological landscape where fathers metamorphose into birds, seasons become deranged, and matter itself dreams. Every sentence is dense with sensory excess, prose that perspires and ferments on the page. Schulz, a schoolteacher who would be murdered by a Gestapo officer in 1942, left behind only two slim volumes. They are enough. In them, the ordinary world is revealed as endlessly strange, a place where imagination is the deepest form of sight.