Ocean Giant is less a book than a space you enter cautiously at first – and then find hard to leave.

In short texts, inventions, and thought experiments (richly illustrated), a cosmos of strange miniatures unfolds: comic, precise, quiet. Stories that suggest rather than assert. Figures that refuse to explain themselves – and devices that solve problems you didn’t know you had. Which, of course, you do.

Everything follows its own internal logic, as if each piece were part of a larger organism that knows more about perception, time, memory, and being human than it lets on. Bold, immensely well read – and yet the exact opposite of intellectual.

Ocean Giant is not meant to be read linearly. You can enter anywhere, stop, return. Three, five, or a few more minutes per text – for resetting and for wonder.

Perhaps this is the essential thing: you already know most of what is said here, quietly. In those early-morning moments just before waking or whenever you find yourself hovering between awareness and autopilot. But most of us forget it again very quickly.

A book for connoisseurs who love reading but not doorstoppers. For people who despise boredom and mediocrity – and who enjoy, from time to time, laughing out loud.