I know what it feels like. The story is intricate, a finely-spun spider’s web. The characters are woven into the story; the narrative forms a cocoon around them, making the characters its own. The plot develops subtly, never giving away more than is required; its veil of mystery stays in place, fluttering every now and then. The emotions portrayed are intense — it has the ability to leave the reader breathless, lost for words. This opus will always stand out, always be different from the others on the shelf.
It’s strange how I’ve never written anything, anywhere, about books, considering that I practically devour them in a matter of a few hours, at one go. I can never decide what is closer to my heart—books or travel. They keep exchanging places and taking the Numero Uno spot turn by turn. I shouldn’t be surprised though; after all, aren’t books a way of travelling to a different place too?