How often do you finish a novel, closing that last page, and feel something bigger than yourself?  As if the book was designed by an architect with enough imagination to construct universes and galaxies?   Okay, that’s a bit hyperbolic, but if you have ever read a book in your life, which I’m sure that you have, then you understand the feeling that I’m talking about.  I won’t call it magic.  But it’s something, well, unsayable. I’ll never forget the first time that I felt that sensation.  My mother and father were going through a terrible divorce — this might have been back in the summer of 98 — when my father had finally sold my childhood home.  My father had already moved out,…