There are days when a rainy window, a cup of tea, and a well-loved book feel like the entire plot of a novel I’d want to live in. Every page is a portal, the way the lamplight glows on a phrase about “wintering,” I keep thinking of Sylvia Plath’s journals and the peculiar comfort of words during the deep hush of February. Even the socked-in sky seems to whisper secrets between chapters. Is there a more decadent pleasure than pausing mid-sentence, just to marvel at how someone managed to describe rain as “a fugue of silver thread”? My mug may be lukewarm now, but my nerdy heart is positively simmering.