Ravished.

I bought a new book yesterday, hoping to drown my cares in stories of other peoples' problems. I bought "Anna Karenina" by Tolstoy, which I have never read but always meant to.

I am only on page 51, and already I am ravished.

I now have something lovely to do on my bus ride to work, during babygirl's naps, and after she goes to sleep at night. In between, I digest the rich chunks as I pass through my day, turning over and over in my mind such succulent bits as the tense, initial bedroom confrontation between Dolly and Stepan.

It has been a long time since I fell in love with a book. ("Everything is Illuminated" by Jonathan Safran Foer.) I'd forgotten how good it feels.