Last summer, I spent a shocking amount of time at my local D.C. pool reading about the Ebola virus. As my friends tanned on nearby chairs and tweens did cannonballs, I sat happily in the water, arms and e-reader barely staying dry, learning the details of an outbreak of a terrifying disease just two dozen miles from where I was wading. That's how I tore through Richard Preston's The Hot Zone, a nonfiction story about the origins of filoviruses such as Ebola, the scientists who study them, and a potential disaster on U.S. soil. This mismatch between dangerous tales and leisurely environs makes up a significant part of my reading life'flipping through Adam Higginbotham's book about Chernobyl at the beach, for example, or picking up Maurice Herzog's classic account of the first ascent of the Himalayan mountain Annapurna during a romantic vacation. I agree fully with what Eva Holland wrote in The Atlantic this week: 'Life-and-death stakes' Dangerous mysteries' Motley crews pitting...
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