My reading group chose for our first book this fall “Rules of Civility” by Amor Towles. You may know him as the author of “A Gentleman in Moscow”, but “Rules of Civility” was his first novel. I’ve read it before, I read it shortly after reading “A Gentleman in Moscow”, and here’s the thing – I didn’t like it.
It takes place in the late 1930s in New York. It’s not my favorite setting for a novel, especially since I was able to spend a lot of time with the count at the Metropol hotel, contemplating the Kremlin opposite when we were bored. Thus, the “rules of civility” fell flat. But here’s another offer – this time I love it.
It’s like I never read it the first time. Nothing is familiar to me, and I underline and highlight passages as if to be tested on them, and it’s a great read. How is it so? Well, that’s right.
I like to re-read my favorite books. “The Great Gatsby” for example. I suspect teachers need it because, as the classics say, it’s not too big. I read it three times, at different stages of my life, and it was a different book each time. If you haven’t read it in a while, come back and you’ll see what I mean.
My grandmother was an avid reader. She brought home stacks of novels and history books, always returning them before they were due. She didn’t want a stain on her permanent record. At 80, she began consulting books she had read years before. She had forgotten most of the book, forgotten even that she had read it, and as far as she was concerned, that was such a good thing. She was able to enjoy it again.
I have read and reread “Slouching Towards Bethlehem” by Joan Didion. His “white album” too. Both are collections of essays set in the 1960s, a time I was influenced by, but too young to take an active part in. I will retain an image, an excerpt from a well-turned sentence, and I go in search of the book.
It stays then about a month or more, and before taking it home, I read everything in it.
My girlfriend, Alice, rereads books all the time. If you could see his collection, you would know what it is. When she finishes a book, she writes in pencil on the last page her name, the date and the time. I love it but I would never be consistent enough to do it.
She re-read Michener. Michener, I say. She recently bought “The Drifters” and sent it to my Kindle – did you know you can do this? Also a Michener, but one that I would actually read. It took place in the 1960s and followed a band of disillusioned young people across continents. I loved every page I didn’t turn.
I’m already looking forward to a week at the beach, maybe two, when I’ve forgotten enough to enjoy it again.
I read “The Miniaturist” on a long flight home from Europe, then finished it at home. I liked it so much that I would like to read it again before starting the sequel, “The House of Fortune”. It arrived last week from Waterstones and is one of the most beautiful books I have ever seen. I can’t proofread my copy of “The Miniaturist”, though. Alice has it, read it and can’t return it. She says she can’t explain it, but once she read a book, it’s like they are linked, Alice and the book, and to my face she said, “You don’t won’t see that again.”
I have to admire his honesty, and I offered to get him his own copy, but no, it’s not the same, apparently. She probably already wrote down her name, date and time. I kind of get it, but no, not really.
The one book I liked but couldn’t read again was The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. I tried, but as I read the opening pages, the intricate and intriguing plot twists unfolded before me and there was no going back to a fresh start.
Maybe in my 80s I’ll see it in the library, pull it off the shelf, like my grandma did, and think, oh, that looks interesting. Ask a nice young man to help me carry him to my car. It’s a big old book. But not as big as a Michener.
