I’ve been a voracious reader all of my life—books figure prominently in some of my early memories. I remember sitting outside the childhood bedroom I shared with my little sister after she’d gone to bed, my feet planted firmly on the uneven red-painted floorboards of the hallway, my back against the wall, intently reading as many pages as I could of James and the Giant Peach before my mom would gently nudge me into my room and ask me to close the book. Or lying on my stomach on the brick hearth in our living room in winter during some holiday gathering, curled up as close to the black mesh grate and flickering flames of the fire as I could comfortably stand, reading The Hobbit as adults wandered in and out of the room—chatting and drinking and carousing—while I turned the pages, rapt with attention and oblivious to the world around me, deep in some other land.