It’s been a calm week at home in Paris.

I’m drained from untangling various messes at work and uplifted with an evening at the Philharmonie, a picnic on the Seine, and an impromptu purchase of an autumn coat that I saw in a shop window—among other joyful highlights like publishing my cycling trip report for Estonia, two Sundays in a row of long rides, and several solid book recommendations, given and received.

Someone asked me this question, to which I didn’t have an immediate answer and I’m intrigued to explore:

When you’re reading novels in your native language, what emotions are accessed or amplified (in contrast to English)?