Never Re-Read the Book That Changed Your Life
Lightning doesn’t often strike twice
“I can’t believe you’ve never read Anna Karenina,” I said to my husband. “It’s life-changing.”
We were driving back to Brooklyn from Philly — a rare car trip free of children, which is why we were able to discuss Russian literature rather than, say, the merits of Descendants 2 over Descendants 3. I wore a large, unsightly medical patch over my left eye because I’d had surgery the day before and I was cheerful and optimistic, having just been the recipient of a minor miracle. No one would ever be able to fix my broken eyes but a doctor had at least removed the cataracts that clouded my vision — cataracts that had developed a full forty years ahead of schedule, thanks to my retinal disease.
“I’ve read The Brothers Karamazov,” my husband replied. “And that didn’t change my life.”
“This is different,” I insisted. “I know you’d love it — ooooh!” I turned to him, placing a hand on his arm. “We should read it together!”
He glanced over at me and made a face. Even with only one eye, I could see that it was not the face I’d been hoping for.
“Is this like when you told me we should read Finnegan’s Wake together?” he asked. “And then you stopped reading after five pages and I was stuck…
