In another book I just finished, The Fleet Street Murders by Charles Finch, the author reminded me that there are other people like me in the world. Whenever I need to cope with a problem or a bad day, I don’t turn to alcohol or anything like that. I turn to other stories. Something I can watch or read and forget about my day for a little.
The same goes for Finch’s protagonist, Charles Lenox.
He was glad there were books in the world, at that moment, glad that there were maps and encyclopedias, and warm fires and comfortable armchairs. He wanted to retreat into his library for a year without leaving it and eat good lunches and take long naps.