A chair.

A lamp.

A page turning.

That’s all. And yet it is everything.

A book is the only thing that slows me completely. No noise. No screen. No updates crawling across my periphery. Just me, the paper, and a world opening in my hands.

It begins with placement. The way the spine falls open. The scent of ink and pulp. The faint drag of a finger along the margin — the way your body quietly adjusts to the rhythm of another voice entering your own.

There is no performance here. No audience. Just me, giving presence to my own imagination.

Reading, like bathing, is a ceremony of return. It pulls us back to ourselves, our unique point of view meaning every word read is totally your own. Pleasure here is not a climax — it is a simmer. Lingering over a sentence. Re-reading a paragraph that struck.

This is not escape. This is embodiment.

A book does not demand. It invites. It waits for you, unchanged, patient, kind.

In a world that thrives on reaction, reading reminds you how to absorb.

The pleasure is not just in the story. It’s in the stillness. The weight of the book in your lap. The low hum of the lamp. The quiet arrogance of carving out time to be alone, with nothing to show for it but a turned page and a softened heart.

So yes — a chair. A lamp. A book.

And you. Alone, but not lonely. Surrounded by words written long ago, waiting only for your breath to make them live again.

This, too, is luxury.