What I enjoy most about reading books is rereading one, especially when it has been forgotten for so many years and a large number of stupid reasons. It is just like to come across in a crazy party with a girlfriend long time lost: you barely recognize her and neither does she, that Awkward Situation. You cringe to some “What an unexpected pleasure!” to buy time holding close to you all those involuntary memories transcending—with the mysterious allure of a déjà vu—while you are blushing hopelessly because you come to realize that all you can remember is a salacious nickname, certainly the creepiest icebreaker ever, unless you are tipsy, flirting or high like a kite, yet still the ultimate truth that goes beyond time unaltered. Thirty years ago, I read An Artist of the Floating World by Kazuo Ishiguro and given that had passed it along to another reader—this selfless way to share your own damn books when you truly liked them—I did not reread this one ever again. Had enough reading with the other big novel that followed in which the spark of genius was not an amazing surprise anymore but simply a solid ascertainment. Well deserved Nobel Prize in Literature 2017.