Once again, due to my inability to plan ahead, I have run out of library books. So until I can stop at the library tonight, I am reading an old paperback I found in the bookshelves here (which, despite my insatiable appetite for books, are quite bare). I've pulled out Umberto Eco's The Name of the Rose.
Way back in 2006, I admitted to reading this in college and then spending an inordinate amount of time and resources (pre-internet --yes, I'm that old.) researching medieval monasteries, the Inquisition, Bernardo Gui, the fictional setting, anything really that I could get my hands on.
Now I'm re-reading it with the help of the WorldWideWeb. Not to mention the years of maturity I've achieved since those halcyon days of undergraduate joy.
Yes, I know how it ends. I promise not to spoil it for me.
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