I am in the middle of In The Woods by Tana French. Last night I was reading and stumbled across the following paragraph. I liked it so much I couldn’t help but to share it.
I read a lot. I always have, but in those two years I gorged myself on books with a voluptuous, almost erotic gluttony. I would go to the local library and take out as many as I could, and then lock myself in the bedsit and read solidly for a week. I went for old books, the older the better–Tolstoy, Poe, Jacobean tragedies, a dusty translation of Laclos–so that when I finally resurfaced, blinking and dazzled, it took me days to stop thinking in their cool, polished, crystalline rhythms.