Books. Are wonderful.
I am rather impartial to Elliot Perlman, whose Seven Types of Ambiguity nursed me out of a self-inflicted enclave of darkness, as much as I am to Wuthering Heights to remind me of the true folly of love, to the superficial flickthroughs that we don't attribute to a true read.

An admission, on my part, has to be made. Continuously, given such a sparkling volume, I embark on, well, affairs. Horrid as it sounds, I even believe it sometimes. Yes, I convince myself that it is only a fling, like those you pine for for eons, and once attaining their attentions shy away. Likewise, I can never cement a novel with the term 'favourite' otherwise I would feel like a serial polygamist.

Ask, WHY ARE YOU TELLING US THIS? WE DO HAVE HALF A BRAIN AND A NEARLY AS ACTIVE MIND! WE ENSCONCE OUR LIVES IN FICTIONAL TEXTS TOO!

Well, there's something more. I feel this guilt. I indulged myself in something that allowed me to doubt the real world. Against my will, I had delayed my reading for months.

Christened 'The New Harry Potter'.

Yes, Stephenie Meyer will be bigger than J.K.

The true testament that soft-core female-fap material trumphs all.

I won't say it. The T-word. Life is rendered insignificant. The man with sparkling skin and stone cold lips. The proof that our world is going implode. Or explosm for that matter.

I fell in love with Edward Cullen.

Now, yes, he is no Alexander Belov, there wasn't enough sex for him to be dismounted (chuckle) from his pedestal (or low wooden bench, which is ideal for cutting potatoes).

But I succumbed. And it's not even like I'm sexually frustrated! It simply escapes me.
Not a literary work capable of the sophisticated exclusivity of prided intellectuals.
But Somehow, Meyer appeals to our humanity, to the simplicity of human want.

And For that, I applaud her.