I walked past a tree house yesterday and suddenly remembered what it was like: being 8 years old, high up in a Jacaranda tree, rough boards against my back, sun on my ankles, green leaves over my head, the rectangle of a book in my hands—the beauty and impossibility and wonder of it.

If you are lucky enough to have done that, too–to have read a book, high in the branches of a tree–then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it will stay with you. To borrow shamelessly from Hemingway: to read in a tree house in the summertime is a moveable feast.

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