In late March of 1997, while working as a receptionist at an alternative newspaper in Manhattan, I was asked to sign for a package from Henry Holt & Co. The package looked like most any other review copy from a publisher, but thicker than most, and heavier, and that made me curious. It was addressed to one of the editors, but I nevertheless opened one end of the mailer and slipped out the cover letter.

“Dear Editor/Reviewer,” it began.“The wait is finally over. Enclosed please find your advance reading copy of Thomas Pynchon’s latest novel, Mason & Dixon.” Something deep inside me began to tingle, then went numb. “You are among a select group of editors and reviewers who are receiving an advance copy of Mason & Dixon. Because of the limited number available, this is the only copy that will be sent to your office. Please keep an eye on it.” I opened my bag and slipped the massive novel inside. The editor would never miss it.

When I crawled into bed in my tiny Brooklyn apartment that night, I brought the book with me, propped myself up on the pillows, and began reading with the 800-page volume balanced on my chest. It took me a few pages to adjust to the eighteenth-century typography and spelling, but once I clicked into it, it became obvious I was reading something remarkable. I thought Mason & Dixon was a profound and hilarious masterpiece, and quite possibly the greatest thing he’d ever written. But as the evenings passed and I got deeper into the novel, I noticed it was taking me longer to focus on each page, and I was losing my place more often.

By page 300, the print seemed to be shrinking out of view, so I started bringing a magnifying glass to bed with me. By page 500, I knew I had to reluctantly abandon the idea of reading in bed, moving the operation to the kitchen table. There under the intense direct light of the table lamp, I could crouch an inch above the page, magnifier in hand, scraping across each line.

With sixty pages to go, I had to give up. I had no choice. My eyes were simply no longer capable of working with reflected light on paper. Over the three weeks I’d been reading the book, they’d crashed on me for good.

I can’t say I was terribly surprised in 1989 when the doctors told me I was going blind. The evidence had been there for a long time. It wasn’t until I was in my mid-twenties that it was finally given a technical name: retinitis pigmentosa, a genetically-linked degenerative eye...