Pleasure. Burn. They're the only two words on the whole page - in the whole book if he was honest - that he had read and actually remembered. The rest was a jumble of names, bad descriptions, inplausible mixes of action and consequence.

Pleasure, the word just rolled off the tongue, almost like a cat unfurling itself and stretching lazily, purring as it spots some new distraction.

Burn, more akin to an explosion, though with the same purring quality, it flooded into his ears a lot more passionately than pleasure did, filled his mind with images, tortorous landscapes with dark shapes licked with bright flame. A return to pleasure, that most basical and sinful of pleasures. He felt his jeans tightening as he scraped the match along the box, saw the flame shoot into life and escapsulate the book in it's warm embrace.

Charred paper fell to the floor, blackening and curling, literature disintergrating at his fingertips. A grin; evil and pleasurable and fulfilling and amazing.

Pleasure is subjective. Burning is not.