Joy of a good book

I pity -- and fail to comprehend -- those who don't like to read. I truly don't believe there can be any greater joy than curling up in a favourite spot with a transformative book. You know the kind I mean: the ones where you slow down while reading the last hundred pages because you don't want the sadness of having finished it. The ones where the world stands still for a while after you close it and ponder what it had to say. The ones where you've been able to see into an entirely different world and you feel transformed by it. The ones that have somehow turned you into a better person.

I've just finished one like that. When a couple of people asked me what it's about (why is plot the only thing by which we commonly define books??), I have to say, well, nothing, really. My cynical side defines it as an author's ill-disguised attempts to put forth her own philosophies on life and literature and call it fiction. But oh, it's done so charmingly! Not to mention wisely. And beautifully. sigh

Yes, one of those books that enters the fibres of your being and mysteriously improves you. Hard to move on to another book after reading like that, don't you agree?