There are rumors and legends about a book. You find it in an old book store, in a dusty corner. You've never heard of anything like it, but it catches your eye, so you keep it. It's fascinating at first, but as you continue to read, you grow weaker. Eventually you realize that the book is devouring your lifeforce, stealing your soul, but still, you can't stop reading it. References to it are made in the corners of madmen's journals, in hushed whispers among the occult seekers.

Then, there's the very true instance of a law student who saw a copy of Quicksilver by Neal Stephenson in a little store while looking for antique teacups for her mother. She knew damned well what it was, and knew that she didn't have the time or energy to spend the next month brushing up on her 17th to 18th century history, the Stuart Rebellion, the origins of calculus, alchemy, the stock market trade of the Netherlands in the 18th century, the scientific and philosophical status of the Cambridge and the Royal Society, and all the other things needed to properly understand this monster of a book.

She opened it anyway. Then she bought it and took it home. You can put "she knew better than that, but did it anyway" on my tombstone. That is all.