There's a handful of books that I've enjoyed so much that I've felt I ought never to re-read as to do so might expose frailties and weaknesses that I missed the first (and only) time I read them.

Strange vow, perhaps, to seal away an impression in the manner of Miss Havisham's dress, but these books have had that effect, and I've kept the memories preserved in amber. Obviously, the edges blur and the skin starts to sag; nevertheless, I've kept temptation at bay, for decades in some case, and not re-read them.

Until this week.

Amongst the swirling, icy mists where these glorious few books are cryogenically stored is Zola's Therese Raquin. I read it, or to be precise, swallowed it whole in one day, nearly thirty years ago; it was a recommended text of a course on literary naturalism I was taking at University.

Started it in the morning, took it through lunch, on into the afternoon, and reached the end sometime in the evening, and then interred it. Too precious, too good, to ever re-read.

I've seen it in countless bookshops since, looked at it resting on the shelves of several libraries, and held back from a reacquaintance. This week I did n't. There's been a copy gazing at me more or less every time I've been browsing the fiction stock in the Camomile Street library.

Gauntlet dropped. Gauntlet picked up. I took it out, opened it up and read it breathlessly, albeit it over a slightly longer period, two days unlike the first time.

As powerful and as passionate as the first time, and no flaws found.