One of the greatest rewards of being a compulsive reader like me is the chance discovery of an author whose writing has me in his grip, and the sensation is akin to an actual physical sensastion of a heady rush of hormones. And in April, I have been twice lucky.

I have just discovered "Sophie's Choice" and I am already in love with Wlliam Styron's evocative prose, his equal command over depicting humor and heartbreak, his ability to make his characters come alive for me. I am surprised as to why it took me so many years to get down to reading this classic and deny myself the pleasure of discovering Styron much earlier. Probably the biggest testimony to the author lies on the fact that I am holding on to the book at the cost of incurring a fine, but I want to leisure through the whole book and not skip through pages as I have been guilty of doing that at times.

The second one has been Roberto Bolano and his 'Savage Detectives'. Imagine an author being called the inheritor to Marquez and it is only in 2009 that I hear about his existence. I am ready to gobble up anything by Bolano now, but he died in 2003, and only a few of his books have got translated in English. But I like waiting. The thought that my wait will be suitably rewarded by another Bolano gem is something that makes me smack my lips in anticipation, and my tongue hang out.

(the above imagery is pretty gross but that's how I picture myself..like a dog waiting for his bones!!)