There is singular magic in losing oneself in the pages of a book. It is the kind of enchantment - for those of us who are open to such enchantment, of course - that dissolves boundaries of time and space. A well-crafted story does more than entertain - it invites introspection, sparks wonder, and awakens the quiet joy of discovering a fellow human's imagination. In other words, this bliss goes well beyond the info-hunter's pop thrill.

Immersion in a book is unlike any other form of escape. It is solitary, never lonely; still, yet brimming with movement. As words unfurl, so do scapes and surroundings, characters shimmer and dialogues hum. The world fades, replaced by the cadence of an internal engine.

The bliss lies in this total surrender, in the suspension of disbelief, all between the covers of a single volume.

There is also profound companionship - of the author, dead or alive, and of the book- object itself. They challenge perceptions, offer solace in times of uncertainty, and create a bridge between you and the 'out there' - paradoxically to be found in the delish communion of the book 'in there'.