You are reading 'If On A Winter's Night A Traveller' by Italo Calvino.You arrange yourself so as not to be disturbed by external forces.You are confused.Where is the story taking you?The lone traveller at the unknown station,the intriguing tale of Gritzvi and Zwida...one moment you are sitting up,caught up in the story and the next,your brows furrow,your fists clench unconsciously around the binding,and you helplessly try to snatch the thread that seems to be eluding you.Just when you have given up,things fall back on track,you smile in realization,giving yourself a little shake,even smacking your head,wondering at the unexpected revelations laid out before you.Your brows clear and the book has your rapt attention again. Neverthless,each cliffhanger brings out a sigh,until the parallel theories get you thinking deeply,foraying into annals of the mind previously unexplored.What seems to be the final novel seems to end things abruptly and violently,which you find rather out of place,not to mention,disturbing.You are losing out again,but wait,that's what the titles signify?Oh my God.Spellbound again,you can't wait to see how it all draws to a close.Again there is the warm sight of two readers and...that's all?But this time the sigh that escapes you is a happy one.You are content and you remind yourself not to expect too much of a good thing."The problem with a good book",as some have remarked,"is that you want to finish it,but you don't want to finish it.Proves legit every time.



P.S.All credit goes to aforementioned work.