How many times has Your Humble Blogger reread Komarr in the last five years? Oh, a bunch. Here, and here, and here. And here, last month as ever there was.
This is not a problem, as I don’t mind rereading comfortable books again and again. This isn’t the sort of book that is very different each time I read it, it’s just a nice, pleasant way to spend a couple of hours. It’s not altogether different, as an experience, from watching Iron Chef or playing Tetris. There’s no sin in it, there’s some good in it, it’s not unhealthy or harmful, it’s not improving me at all.
No, I reread books like Komarr once a year or so, just to pass the proverbial, and I like that I have a few dozen books that fit that task so well. The problem, such as it is, comes from the blogging. I have nothing new to say about Komarr, or about the experience of reading it. I see that one recent re-read was a trifle irritating; that didn’t happen this time. I didn’t discover any plot holes or thematic inconsistencies; I didn’t discover any new insights or connections to my own life or thinking. I just read it for a while, and then it was over, and I put it back on the shelf.
Well, no, I mean, I put it on the night table, and it sat there for a while, and then I probably moved it to the dresser for a week or two, and then I put it back on the shelf. Nothing new there, either.
Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian