A Different Kind of Time
There is the time of the ringing phone, of the 9:03 train, of the headline scrolling past. A thin, hurried time that pulls at the nerves.
Then, there is the time of the book. This other time is measured in turned pages. You feel it in the heft of the hardback in your lap, the smell of paper and old glue that catches in your throat.
A good book is not an escape. It is an arrival. It is the act of paying attention—the world, which has become blurry with speed, brought back into sharp, aching focus.
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