YEARS AGO a writer of some distinction told me that books sometimes read you. I had no idea what he meant–until a book read me.

The book was Robert Penn Warren’s “All the King’s Men,” and I’d bought it in college thinking it was a book I’d immediately read. It was justly famous, having won the Pulitzer Prize in 1946. But for some reason I got stuck about 30 pages in. And so Mr. Warren’s novel took its place on a bookshelf. But as it stood there and I would occasionally glance at it, it seemed to want my attention. This went on for some years until, one afternoon, I found myself strangely compelled to reach for it. I couldn’t put it down. Upon finishing, I realized what my friend had meant. The book had read me. In one sitting.