A Good Book To Read For A Woman の小説・ストーリー

It looks like a library but she said it was just a room for books that wasn't for the public to casually buy. I opened some book and saw that it was full of romance stories. 'Action is better.' But what could these romance books have that many women likes to read these? They have the same story anyways. As I was flipping the pages of a book I casually picked up, the woman from the counter earlier went back inside the room holding two thick books. "Sir Jean, I have the books you wanted." "Thank you." "May I ask a question, sir Jean?" I nodded at her question.

Glancing back to the book I contemplated whether or not I should finally read it, about two days after the mysterious woman had given me the book some weird things had started to happen. For one it always felt as if someone would constantly watch me every time I'd want to start with the book and in the evening the house would be filled with voices I`d be too scared to get out of bed to look and all this went on about a week, it was then when I decided to pack the book away and read it when I got back home and since then there hasn't been another incident until now... I tried to recall what the book was about but nothing came to mind. Gazing back towards the book, it felt as if something was

I looked around the large library on the fifteenth floor of the office. Two years I worked here, I never visited the library because of course work is more important. Besides being used as a display, this library is usually used for programmers who want to work in peace. If Big Man's secretary hadn't taken Rhysand and me to the library, I might have been the only employee who had never visited this room. I love reading. Reading novels. The first novel I read was by Louisa May Alcott; Little Woman, and then moved on to other feminist novels such as Handmaid's Tale and Pride and Prejudice—the book I'm holding right now.

I thought about the six books. I thought about Arthur. She'll know that. I thought about a woman reading to feel less alone for twenty-nine years and the specific and worn spines of the books she had returned to and the receipt used as a bookmark and the full and attentive quality of a person who was genuinely inside a book, genuinely finding in it the thing she had gone looking for. I thought: she opened the first one. I thought: she is telling me she opened the first one. I thought: she is telling me she knows.

For a moment, I savored the quiet escape from the whirlwind outside. "Hmm," I began, swirling the glass in my hands. "Let's see... I belt out questionable tunes in the shower, prefer quiet nights with a book to these," I gestured around, "and this Friday night attire is definitely out of character." "Books?" His tone was genuinely curious, not the feigned interest I’d come to expect from most. "Any favorites?" "Jane Eyre," I replied without hesitation. "There’s something timeless about a woman's quest for love and autonomy."

"Well, we have Tickle Your Fancy - A Woman's Guide to Sexual Self-Pleasure. Taking it off the shelf, I show her the cover. It has a picture of a woman with her eyes closed, head thrown back, apparently in the throes of self-pleasure. "What a great title," she says, looking at the book." It's been a long time since my fancy's been tickled properly." She's smiling as she flips the pages. Not wanting to walk away from this beautiful, sexually candid woman, I reach for a familiar yellow book and tell her, "of course, if you're really desperate, there's always Sex For Dummies." "Oh great! We just met and already you're calling me names!" she says flirtatiously. She looks me in the eyes and dips h

"That's beautiful, really beautiful" he remarks as his eyes finally lift up from the photo. "Does she still like to read?" His words a barely above a whisper. "She's constantly reading" I confirm. I love that about Amelia, she's always in the middle of a book and won't stop talking about a book once you get her started on it. My theory for her happiness and her reading is still well standing I think; when she's reading a new book then she feels okay, she's okay with some unexpected turns and possible heartbreaks. But when she's reading an old book; she needs comfort, stability, something that she can rely on to remain the same when things around her are unstable. She's currently reading some

I donated a dozen books from the Barlowe house—stories I wanted other young girls to find: Jane Eyre, Little Women, The Secret Life of Bees, Becoming, The House on Mango Street, and more. Books that had whispered to me when the world was too loud. Books that had taught me what a woman could be. Mrs. Bertram smiled as she scanned the titles. “This will change someone’s life,” she said. I nodded. “That’s the goal.” I stopped at the market afterward for fresh apples and ginger chews. A few people I knew offered kind smiles, congratulations, warm nods. The town had softened. The whispers had quieted. And even when they hadn’t… I no longer let them land.