I’ve been reading Walter Isaacson’s biography Einstein of late and enjoying it very much.  (Although even it’s non-mathematical description of relativity has pushed my understanding to the limit.)  At noon today, I dove into the book and disappeared within it.  I read 35 pages during my lunch hour, which for me is impressive for non-fiction.  Moreover, I was completely absorbed by it.  I felt as though I was participating in the events taking place in 1933, that I could see them unfolding around me, that I could hear Einstein’s voice, and perhaps even understand some of what he must have been feeling during that frightening and tumultuous time.

Now that’s what I call good writing.