Читала Going Postal.

Darkness and silence squeezed him in a fist.
Moist von Lipwig knelt with his head resting on his arms. There was air here but it was warm and stale and wouldn’t last long. He couldn’t move more than a finger.
He could die here. He would die here. There must be tons of mail around him.
‘I commend my soul to any god who can find it,’ he mumbled, in the stifling air.
A line of blue danced across his inner vision.
It was handwriting. But it spoke.
‘Dear Mother, I have arived safely and found good lodgings at...
The voice sounded like a country boy but it had a... a scritchy quality to it. If a letter could talk, it would sound like that. The words rambled on, the characters curving and slanting awkwardly under the pen of a reluctant writer—
—and as it ran on another line also began to write across the dark, crisply and neatly:
Dear Sir, I have the honour to inform you that I am the sole executer of the estate of the late Sir Davie Thrill, of The Manor, Mixed Blessings, and it appears that you are the sole...’
The voice continued in words so clipped that you could hear the shelves full of legal books behind the desk, but a third line was beginning.
Dear Mrs Clarck, I much regret to inform you that in an engagement with the enemy yesterday your husband, C. Clark, fought valiantly but was...
And then they all wrote at once. Voices in their dozens, their hundreds, their thousands, filled his ears and squiggled across his inner vision. They didn’t shout, they just unrolled the words until his head was full of sound, which formed new words, just as all the instruments of an orchestra tinkle and scrape and blast to produce one climax—
Moist tried to scream, but envelopes filled his mouth.

Ночью мне снилось, что я Мойст со всеми его приключениями. Я едва не обос... очень испугалась, когда полетела с 5-го этажа.