If I look back upon the past few years and my modern reading, I see books that made me cry become my favorites more than those that made me laugh. I see books that talked about unsettling topics become my favorites. I see books that dig up some long-buried emotions and reactions from deep within me. How can I say that I “enjoyed” reading them? And if I said that, does that make me some kind of a sociopath? Do I thrive on sadness? On the dark? Surely not!
The Melodramatic Bookworm 