From one of the books I'm reading, Half Life, by Shelley Jackson. I'd like to think she and I are related, but we probably aren't.

(background: narrator is one half of a conjoined twin, and she's talking about when she and her sister read different books together)

This left a particular legacy. I cannot reread a certain energetic tale of derring-do without a feeling of melancholy bushwhacking me in the middle of a gunfight, at just the point her sob story made her bawl. Or read a particular love scene without bursting out laughing. Every book sems to me to have a second story under its skin, a narrative not of incident but of emotion, at odds with the one on the surface. Even when, for school, we had to read the same books, I reached the sad parts with a feeling of déjà vu when she had been there a page before me; she scooped every story, except the ones I scooped first. More often, it was a matter of chuckling or weeping over a grammar book. And when we found the battered Playboy by the highway, the day before a math test, √2 made my pulse gallop, and still does.

Also, I think this is an interesting short film. As one of my friends put it when we were talking about it, this is what dying of boredom looks like (it's 13 minutes, but worth it, and you probably won't be able to look away anyway)