Reading is an escape, an education, a delving into the brain of another human being on such an intimate level that every nuance of thought, every snapping of synapse, every slippery desire of the author is laid open before you like, well, a book.
A book doesn’t get old. Even the books belonging to 19th century authors are still relevant. Though the language might look ornate or its customs a bit quaint but they deal with the universal coming-of-age issues of who am I, who will I bcome, and who will I go through life with (think Little Women).
When you feel down and your mind is adrift, then there’s no better apparatus to send it floating off on than a good book. Whether you are in the midst of an Africa safari that has just been charged by elephants, or in the drawing room of a large English country house interrogating the butler about a body discovered on the Aubusson carpet, reading gives the pure pleasure of feeling transformed magnified and replenished.