Not many reading experiences burn themselves on to your consciousness, but I have the most vivid memory of the first time I read Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose: my father’s winged armchair in which I was sitting; the view from my parents’ living-room window; the very angle of the sunlight as it fell upon their carpet. Few other novels from the last 40 years have given me that fierceness of reading pleasure, a pleasure so intense you never forget it.
Related: Umberto Eco obituary
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