This happened a few years ago when I was in the active stage of writing a dissertation. It’s like writing a diploma, but not two weeks or a month, but about a year. At some point, life becomes simple and logical - thoughts revolve around one topic, words are picked for inexpressible reasoning. All other life activities become something auxiliary and remote to the 10th plan. The task of making tea is a simple algorithm, which is performed purely mechanically, as is the task of drinking it. The road to home is a tunnel for reflection that flows into the text.
I sat behind the compass, looking for literature. Also mechanically: killed the request, walked the links, jumped, killed the request... Waiting for the next book to start downloading, I felt a vague anxiety, increasing discomfort. Chaos that destroys my ordered consciousness. The response to the book was outrageous, it sounded as follows: "O wonderful wonderful world, discovered by a brilliant author. The unparalleled talent of the author has revealed to our world this miracle, which will take a worthy place in the library. The plot, presented by a perfect writing skill, makes you not break before reading from cork to cork, leaving a blessed ecstasy. But most importantly, it is the temptation with which you will once again take this book from the shelf, hold it in your hands, not uncovering, stretching pleasure, and only then dive into it with your head. The book was called "Theory of Probability. Mathematics and statistics"