The kind of reading usually evoked in this complaint—either directly or indirectly—is that of the novel: reading that is all-absorbing, where the world outside the page disappears, and the one within beckons during every waking moment. This is reading on the brink of religion—a deeply blissful state that all readers aspire to, memories of which evoke a nostalgia usually reserved for a first love. I am as enamored as anyone with reading like this, and I sympathize with those who would mourn its passing.
Does anyone write about the act of reading as well as Mandy brown?
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