Until recently I read mostly in spanish, my english vocabulary was far too narrow and the gross of the books I chose had a very distintive purpose. Ease the way to a new laguage by entertainment only. I fled from hardest and therefore more fulfilling readings. I was scared and yet intrigue from my usual authors in their original texts. Their voices so familiar to me before, sounded now convoluted and alien.
But there was an inflexion point not long ago when YA fantasy novels were just not enough. My soul was craving for more elaborated stories, with a deeper meaning and more human characters.
Life needed beauty, and I founded it bubbling in books. Even when they depicted amoral violent sinners there was so much beauty in the descriptions that I became utterly obsessed. I needed more.
Once you have started reading, talking (or in my case writting) about your experiencies feels natural. Although this might be more private that I suspected.