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The strange bliss of reading is mysterious even to those who are most susceptible to it. I’m not speaking here of the pleasures of learning, nor of those to be had from being drawn into an exciting story, but simply of the sensual delight of reading good writing, all by itself. ...
For me, the pleasure of reading is concentrated in the author’s conviction—a mind not my own making itself entirely intelligible, manifest, and articulate. Take me for a ride, as far away from myself as I can go—even to the place from which my whole soul will recoil; I want to know everything. Maria Bustillos, newyorker.

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