Happy Monday!
I was recently struck by a small phrase in Michael Dirda's Washington Post review of Fiona MacCarthy's The Last Pre-Raphaelite: Edward Burne-Jones and the Victorian Imagination. Dirda calls the book (which I haven't yet read) "one of those books one can happily live in for a week." I love the idea of inhabiting a book - in part because it really speaks to what readers often feel when they encounter an engrossing text, and also because the phrase itself shifts our perceptions about what is and isn't possible to do, both with words and with books. To expand a bit on this latter point, I guess I'm more broadly interested in the poetic use of words to describe what one might consider an everyday experience.
