One of the dubious glories of being a voracious reader is discovering books that you read years ago (or maybe, these days, year) as old dimly remembered events; usually half way through 600 pages, when you begin to feel familiar with the plot line, and the character; too far along to let it go, not far enough along to remember how it ends.
Luckily when I buy most books I buy them used, from a thrift shop or used book store or a church sale, so the outlay is generally less than 50 cents a book, sometimes 3 for a quarter. I'm not shy about rereading a book. If I liked it the first time, chances are I still do, although some are one-time reads, good enough in their own right but not something to be repeated anytime soon.
But now, with the proliferation of 'blockbuster' novels with similar theme names ("The Bourne Ultimatum", "The Bourne Identity", etc) and six or seven hundred page reads, by the time I've reached the end of one I am so overwhelmed with plot lines and red herrings and possiblities that the brain just quits. It's like being on a fast moving train. You can no longer appreciate the scenery, there's just too much to take in.
One of the other dubious glories of being a older voracious reader is, like meeting old classmates after 45 or 50years, you spend half your time trying to figure out where you've seen them before, and the rest catching up on people neither of you can recall clearly or perfectly.
In my last swoop through the thrift shop a few weeks back I managed to find at least a dozen very large novels by Kellerman, Michael Crichton, Robert Ludlum. John Grisham. It turns out that I actually had bought some of the books earlier in the summer and ten pages in realized they were books I had reread a few years back. sigh. The only one in the current pack that I can deal with is Grisham. The others are either too bloody or too complex or too plot heavy and they will go to book heaven come winter.