I've never considered any book, especially a novel or work of literature, something you should ‘plow through.’ The whole point of reading is savoring the story, immersing yourself in a whole new place. Maybe one that doesn't even exist.

Holding a real book is like holding something alive. There’s the grit of the pages between your fingers as you turn them. The edges get soft and worn. With a real book, you feel the weight of the story more.

When Grandma Wells brought me home from school that day, and I saw my mother crating books, I begged to keep them, clutching my favorite copy of Anne of Green Gables. Mom relented with one condition: the books would remain in my room. Now she rarely entered my bedroom, where I slept in the middle of a thousand stories. I could trust the words in those books to remain the same, unlike the contents of our apartment.

I left the closet without the denim shirt or the blue stone necklace. The books drew me close, a stronger pull than my clothes, a comfort softer than wool or cotton. I approached the nearest shelf and grabbed that same copy of Anne of Green Gables with its faded mint cover.