How is it that we can open a book feeling little (aside from the usual excitement or trepidation) and finish it in a quivering, weepy mess? As readers, we often come to care deeply about characters who don't exist. Occasionally we care more about fictional characters than about some of the real people in our lives (I can't be the only one). When these characters suffer, we feel for them, even though their suffering is not real.

Good literature is a delivery system for feeling....