We often say that books “take us away” on magical journeys through space and time and that we lose ourselves in books. Certainly I love that about books; the feeling that when I pick one up I may become part of whatever is going on between those covers for a while. But I have often felt that the opposite is true, as well. That many books I've read have become points in time and space for me, reminding me time and again of where I was (and who I was) when I read them.
Mention Watership Down and it's the week after a devastating ice storm, all six of the members of my family huddling around the wood stove on our tiny enclosed back porch during a week without power. Violence in the rabbit warrens? Sounds about right.
Stephen King's Danse Macabre and I am on the couch recuperating from a particularly exhausting case of mono my first summer home from college. I think The Hunger was also in my book pile, but it's Danse Macabre that triggers the memory.