I think reading as a child is probably superior to reading as an adult. Granted, now I can stay up AS LATE AS I WANT to devour whatever tome (see below) I happen to be reading. But the truth is my eye lids usually droop after ten pages.
When I was a child, I hid books in my sheets and squinted by the light from the hallway, reading until a parent's footsteps rounded the stairs. This was how nerd children rebelled, illictly drinking up literature. That satisfaction—of eschewing "the man's" bedtime—coupled with the pleasure of reading is difficult to reproduce as an adult.
Still I try. Try to find that book that envelopes you so completely and restores your wonder at the fantastical. Or wonder at the beauty, simplicity or power of language. Since graduating, with an English degree, these books come to me less frequently. Or rather I seek them out less, prone as I am to non-fiction or thoughtful magazines. And it seems as if my reading capacity has diminished. It takes me much longer to finish a book, what with the tired eyes of a 9-5er.
Still I try. I read something before bed every night. No matter what time I am getting to bed. It may be just a page or two, but it's something.
Right now I'm reading Middlesex at the hearty recommendation of Katherine. It has not fully consumed me but sometimes I do get lost in its world, wandering for a bit. Just this glimmer that it's possible is enough.