"Why?" She picked an oblong glass paperweight off an end table and rolled it around in her hands.
"Because no one else ever got that close to my world." I uncrossed my leg and leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Regarding a book, for me at least, is like traveling in someone else's world. If it's a good book, then you feel comfortable and yet anxious to see what's going to happen to you there, what'll be around the next corner. But if it's a lousy book, then it's like going through Secaucus, New Jersey - it smells and you wish you weren't there, but since you've started the trip, you roll up the windows and breathe though your mouth until you're done."
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