There is something about the tortuous delight in reading C. S. Lewis that captivates me every time. The beauty of a phrase, the clarity of thought, the vivid pictures that come to mind.
Even just flipping through a book to find something arouses all the same joy, the same exquisite painfulness that it did the first time through. You are caught in something partway between an adventure and a dull chore. The very monotony of turning pages and moving your eyes becomes tiresome, but you can hardly absorb enough words at any one glance! You want to rush forward to see what will happen, and to experience the new vistas that unfold before you, but you also try to hold back and savour each moment as it passes.
It is thrilling, compelling, heart-wrenching. Desire nearly overwhelms you with its force. It is like driving to see an old friend. The ride can hardly be over fast enough, but the bitter-sweet desire of waiting is itself part of the joy.
It feels like life.