Eventually he said, more to himself than to her: ‘Maybe life is kind of like writing stories, poems or Books. For being really able to write good ones we would need to read many and various kinds, good and bad ones equally. Although, ‘good’ and ‘bad’ is a matter of taste.

So maybe we should just try and find our taste and start writing?’

‘The real tragedy here is though,’ She replied in a calm voice ‘that we would need to live many and various different lifes. And maybe we recognize, at some point, that the previous one was more our taste.’

‘Books can be reread.’ He returned.

‘And can lifes be relived?’ She asked, addressed more to the universe than to him.