Welcome to Reading with Joy.

This summer, we're reading Pyrinaezi by Susanna Clark, a book about a man who lives

in a house that loves him.

So get yourself a cup of tea.

Sit down and let's begin. When the moon rose in the third northern

hall, I went to the ninth vestibule to witness the joining of three tides. This is something that

happens only once every eight years. The ninth vestibule is remarkable for the three great staircases it contains.

Its walls are lined with marble statues, hundreds upon hundreds of them, tear upon tier,

rising up into the distant heights. I climbed up the western wall until I reached the statue

of a woman carrying a beehive, 15 meters above the pavement. The woman is two or three

times my own height, and the beehive is covered with marble bees the size of my thumb.

One bee? This always gives me a slight sensation of queasiness, crawls over her left eye.

I squeezed myself into the woman's niche and waited until I heard the tides roaring in the lower halls

and felt the walls vibrating with the force of what was about to happen. First came the tide from the

far eastern halls. This tide ascended the easternmost staircase without violence. It had no

color to speak of, and its waters were no more than ankle-deep. It spread a

gray mirror across the pavement, the surface of which was marbled with streaks of milky foam.

Next came the tide from the western halls. This tide thundered up the westernmost staircase and hit

the eastern wall with a great clap, making all the statues tremble. Its foam was the white

of old fishbones, and its churning depths were pewter. Within seconds its waters were as high as the

wastes of the first tier of statues. Last came the tide from the northern halls. It hurled itself

up the middle staircase, filling the vestibule with an explosion of glittering

...