A couple of nights ago I was sitting on the porch at my friend’s place.
The sun was gone, just like the wine we had been drinking.
So, with that particular predisposition of the soul that most often comes when the right amount of food and booze and stimulating company all happen together, we started chatting about books and writing.
My friend isn’t a writer. And he isn’t planning on becoming one any time soon.
Indeed, he is perfectly content with being a voracious reader. And of having the opportunity to chat, as often as possible, about books and the inner mechanics of a story.
Now, while we decided whether or not to help ourselves with a last glass of wine–it was a damn fine Rosso di Montalcino we were enjoying–we ended up chatting about books we had reread and found dramatically different from the first time around.
For me, this subject is a tricky one. It’s so for a couple of reasons.
First of all, I reread only a very small portion of the books I’ve already read. It’s not a matter of how much I enjoyed reading a particular book. It’s more about the number of new books I have on my to-read list. Because I’m curious. And a sucker for a new story. A more than willing sucker.
Secondly, given that my memory is quite good, more often than not, for me rereading tends to be quite a boring experience. Even if the writer’s style is egregious and now and then I find myself reading passages I had completely forgotten. Continue reading