Night reading is one of life’s great pleasures. Not just reading before bed, but reading in the wee hours, at times when I’d rather be sleeping.

I don’t grab a book first thing. I give deep breathing a chance to work, and sometimes it does. 

When it doesn’t, I grab whatever novel or nonfiction tome is on top of the pile and plunge into another world. It’s silent and dark, the only illumination supplied by my stalwart little book light. 

Thirty to sixty minutes of reading does the trick — unless I’m unusually frayed or the story is unusually suspenseful. 

Last night, neither of those was the case. I immersed myself in the Brazilian jungle until my eyelids felt heavy. When I woke up again, it was morning.