Here is something sad, and true: it has been almost a year since I truly lost myself in a book.
I'm talking deaf to the world, so absolutely enveloped by the story that I'm actively angry with who or whatever pulls me out of it. I used to do it all the time, with every book, every shred of paper. I went through books like a 3-packs-a-day smoker, end to end. Sometimes I can find the old spark when I re-read favorites like the His Dark Materials series or On the Road, those old old friends that I can fall so easily into, like a perfectly broken-in easy chair. But the last time I picked up a new (to me) book that thrilled me, woke me in ways that only the written word can was at the beginning of this year, and who knows how long before that, which makes for a long and terrible dry spell for a bibliophile.
So I'm extending my anguish to you in the hopes that you'll help pull me out of this funk. I'll read anything. I'll read everything. Just give me something I can fall into.
And so we witness the end.
3 years ago