Why read? The splenetic read in order to judge. The curious read to discover. The melancholic read to lose themselves and refind themselves unlonely. The rebel readers use book titles like punks use safety pins: this is who I am and I don’t care. The angel readers, though, oh the angel readers read to hear the ringing of the very bells which would get a depressive God out of bed in the miserable aftermath of a heaven’s war he’d failed to win, but most of us read for the validation of the thing, not so much to agree as to be agreed with, not so much to understand as to feel understood. You are read by books — they fathom you — do you have the depth demanded for their particular charge?