I never bought into the idea that reading was an escape. Sure, you go somewhere and visit with new characters, get “lost” in worlds and made-up dramas. But ultimately (as all things do) it just brings you closer to yourself. True escapism, in my book, would be reading for the sake of falling into a coma: a story with only heroes, love that is not a mystery, a sentence with no music. Even then, the truth of you sneaks up like a spring flower.
And, God, how we’re better for it.