Great books make me lose control.

At some point, the number of remaining pages becomes manageable. I feel the ending coming soon. I can feel the climax coming but I get the urge to put it down. I've fallen in love with the characters as they are and I don't want them to change. I want to live in a world in which they exist as they currently do. But I can't help myself. The simple act of reading is too engaging. And so against my better judgment, I abandon both sleep and social engagements to finish as soon as possible.

Then, after I'm done, I sit in sweaty shock, aware of the finality of life. There will come a time when I read my last great book— a time when I lose control for the last time. And that scares me. Because surrendering oneself to art is the best part of being alive.

The Seven Evelyn Hugo starts out as a fictionalized story of cliché Hollywood but soon evolves into so much more. I'm not always the biggest fan of the prose and I don't know if I'll reread it any time soon. But it did make me lose control. And that's the highest praise I have to give.