There is a space we inhabit when reading that is unlike any of the other places we visit.
The Upanishads describe Brahman, the Ultimate Reality, as He who “standing still, overtakes those who are moving swiftly.”
Books, I believe, are that which bind us to Brahman.
They are the means by which our swiftly moving stories of individuality are suddenly snatched inward towards a dimension beyond the sensation of being a separate self.
Beware the books!
Those seemingly innocuous objects resting quietly and inanimately on our bookshelves are masks; they are disguises worn by a formless presence waiting patiently and strategically for the right moment to overtake us with its stillness.