Stories about stories: Middlesex

It was 2005; February, I think. I'd left Clermont-Ferrand the previous May and was dying to see friends in France, so my mom and I planned a trip. We stayed in a friend's friend's apartment while he was on vacation. The apartment had a kitten, a billion bookshelves, and a tiny kitchen where we cooked dinner one night for Erica, Angelique and Jean-Yves.

I was pretty jet-lagged that trip. No biggie, though. I had a book I was obsessed with to keep me company into the wee hours of the morning. Middlesex was published in '02, but I didn't find it until '05. By that point, Jeffrey Eugenides had won the Pulitzer but hadn't yet been featured on Oprah's book club. I knew it was a big deal, but the truth is that all that meta info about a book-- the prizes, the quotes from other authors, the marketing of it-- fades away. Because at the end of the day? You either sink into a story or you don't.

I'm about 100 pages in and two things are evident:
1. I forget a lot of details about books I've read. Ok, not just details- plot lines too.
2. This book is DAAAAAMN good.

Rereading is the best thing ever. It's like hanging out with an old friend, like remembering how much funnier someone is in person or how thoughtful and likeable they are in conversation. You know these things about them, but every once in a while it's refreshing to be in the same place again, paving over old memories with new ones.

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