.dropcap { color: #838078; float: left; font-size: 82px; line-height: 60px; padding: 5px 8px 0 0; } .art-aside-tmp, .article-aside.half-width { height: auto !important; min-height: auto !important; } In August 2018, novelist Jeff VanderMeer gazed out at his new yard. He and his wife, Ann, had just bought a bright, airy home nestled in the forest canopy at the edge of a small ravine in Tallahassee, Florida. It perched like an observatory on a half acre of land that dissolved into lush, primordial jungle. They had visited the house hours after it hit the market in mid-June and made an offer that day. Ann, an editor and anthologist, was captivated by the built-in bookshelves. For VanderMeer, the thrill wasn’t so much the house as the seeming pristine wilderness out back, a riot of foliage so otherworldly that one of the neighbors called the area “ShadowVale.” The tangle was thick enough that, in the coming days, he would get lost exploring a...