It didn’t happen, it isn’t true, some of it is silly. And yet, for those of us with a reading habit, none of this matters.

We read fiction to live other lives and wear different skins, to be male and female, old, young, animal, human, alien, robot, faeire and a thousand other things. We see the world through an array of eyes and from myriad perspectives.

We read stories to travel through time and space, everywhere becomes accessible to us. Past and future, and all the times and places that never were and never will be. All of these things are ours to explore, because we read.

The joy of a hundred romances with happy endings. The triumph of countless battles won. The murder mysteries we help to solve, the crimes we thwart, and the crimes we pull off. The heroic stances, the witty exchanges, the poetic justice and the beautiful heartbreaking tragedies. All of these are ours, while we read.

For a while, the laws of physics do not apply, necessarily. For a while, dreams are real, and anything is possible.

We read books because our lives are richer for it.

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