While we were on vacation, I finished reading The Girl Who Played with Fire. I had to work a bit while we were away, so I didn’t have these long, luxurious hours of reading, like I always envision having when I’m on vacation. But I did have some time and a comfy bed and the knowledge that the alarm wasn’t going to wake me too early in the morning. So I stayed up late with a thriller, a page-turning, race-to-the-end story. The very best kind of book to read into the late hours of the night.
That is when reading becomes a thrill ride. When you can’t stop turning the pages even though you’re tired, even though common sense tells you to put down the book and get some sleep. When you look at the clock and realize that an hour has passed but it seems like mere minutes. That’s my favorite kind of reading. The late night roller coaster can’t finish fast enough kind of reading.
And that’s what The Girl Who Played with Fire was. Sure, he needed a better editor. All of those references to IKEA and ultra-specific types of computers grew tiresome. But the story. The story’s the thing. That’s what keeps me reading — always in search of the next great thrill ride, the next too-late night that I won’t regret the next day because the book was just that good.
Right now, I’m halfway through World War Z. And yes, I stayed up much too late last night reading it.