What a gift it is to go to bed early, to sink into the layers of flannel sheets and thick covers, and to be transported to another time and place through the pages of a great book.

On this cold, cold night—an unexpected blast following a full-on Spring weekend—here I am cozy and warm listening to the wind as it howls against the screen porch door. What a blessing it is, I think, to be here, a novel in my hands, my greatest worry (for the moment) how 13-year-old Theo Decker will ever find his way out of the bombed Metropolitan Museum. And where is his mother?

Turning around didn’t work; going backwards didn’t work; so I decided to crawl forward, hoping that things would open up, and soon found myself inching along painfully with a smashed, desperate feeling and my heard turned sharply to one side.*

A few more paragraphs I think. Then a few more pages. Then, I’ll just read to the end of the chapter, to see what happens.

I think I shall acknowledge it as the grace of this day, the fact that I can be there in that awful rubble with Theo, then simply close the cover of the book, turn out the light, and fall fast asleep in my warm, safe bed.

*from The Goldfinch, by Donna Tartt 

30 Days of Grace III