By and large I love the publications of Divers Press, but In The Midst of My Fever by Irving Layton, like Olson's In Thicket, leaves me cold. Maybe it is the condition of my copy. The bumps, the fading, the pastedown jacket, the start of separation in the text block. The crayon cover reminds me of the later cover to Jack Spicer's Language, a book I love and consider one of the best White Rabbit titles. The more I think about it the more I believe that I cannot overlook my copy's blemishes. As a collector I am too superficial. Beauty is more than skin deep. Maybe it is time for me to look in the mirror and admit that my book collecting addiction is affecting my appreciation for print. Archive fever can be ugly; perhaps it is me and not the cover of In the Midst of My Fever that is jaundiced.