In [A Book-Lover’s Idyll->], I waxed rhapsodic on libraries and told of a mysterious book that helped to spark my love for them. A few months ago, I was rooting through the racks at Half Price Books and stumbled across the mystery book, apparently in the same edition as the long-lost one I started to read two and a half decades ago, as I immediately recognized the cover art. It was Thrice Upon a Time, by James Hogan. I’d read some of James Hogan’s other books over the years and enjoyed them, so was anxious to finally bring closure to that my long-standing Quixotic quest and finish the book.

You know what? It wasn’t bad. Certainly not the majestic opus my memory had built it into, but an enjoyable read nonetheless. But far better than the reading was, of course, the discovery, the chance to read the last page of the book I’d started 25 years ago — definitely the longest it’s ever taken me to finish reading a story!