A horse enthusiast rereads (again) his cherished racetrack "classics."
“I hate to read new books.”
—William Hazlitt, “On Reading Old Books”
I am really not much of a rereader. I envy people who are, but it’s not in my blood. Over the past twelve months, I’ve rarely picked up a book for rereading for any reason other than professional necessity. For the most part, editions of old books matter little to me. I confess I love my Penguin edition of J. R. Ackerley’s Hindoo Holiday—which I recently reread because I was writing about My Dog Tulip—with its cerise-striped cover, the words “Travel and Adventure” stamped along the edges, and the back-matter ads for Army Club cigarettes (“the front-line cigarette”). And I do remember well where I bought this copy—a great little bookstore in Nova Scotia that carried not only tons of old Penguins but tons of
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