There are many kinds of books.

The kind you read over a weekend.

The kind you read sometimes before bed.

The kind you read slowly over many months – across years even – because in it there's much to chew on and to read it all quickly would be an inferior accomplishment.

The kind you listen to attentively while driving or walking or riding the bus.

The kind you listen to distractedly while tending to housework.

The kind you forgot you read.

The kind you didn't finish but that permanently changed how you see the world.

The kind you recommend to everybody.

The kind you read because you are frozen with existential ennui and reading it is the only thing you can comfortably do.

The kind you read because your friends already did and you want to talk to them about a book.

The kind you read with distrust.

The kind you read more often because it feels nice in your hands.

The kind you read to learn more about an author's influences.

The kind you read to learn from the author's writing style.

The kind you read because it's a classic.

The kind you read with special excitement because nobody's ever heard of it and it's your own little discovery.

The kind you read because it's very relevant to things that are going on.

The kind that's just too damn long to finish but still worth the time you spent on it.

The kind you don't really want to read but also don't want to give up on.

The kind you find yourself bringing up in conversation but you've actually never read.

The kind you read because it was gifted to you.

The kind you read because it won a big prize.

The kind you read because you picked it up to peruse but then found yourself gripped by.