The White Hand series are revisions of old pulp books (here,1948-1952) that are “unreadable” to me in one way or another—either the writing seems so bad I can’t hold my eye to the page or they are now so fragile that turning the pages feels like I’m killing them. Yet I love these books’ objectness: their heft and their covers, so redolent with stagey drama and their generic, hopped-up taglines, how their publishers’ crests ride the left corner, their factual pastness. My additions are simple: mark the white hands so that they are readable: think about what they’ve done.