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Memory is strange.

After finishing this book a second time, I find myself quite puzzled. During my first read through (back in 2020), I remember being enamored with Piranesi, with the tides, with his wanderings and descriptions of the Halls, and conversely, being quite disappointed as the story unfolded and the unknown was revealed. I decided to reread this for the earlier sections, to rediscover the poetry and wonder in which Piranesi describes his world...

Turns out, there isn't THAT much of it here. What is here is still great, but it's short - well short of what I recall. I thought there was MORE. I thought the early convergence of the tides was a momentous event. I thought we were alone with Piranesi for much longer, and learned of the House through his eyes more deeply. Apparently I also made up a portion of the story where Piranesi explores unknown rooms, teetering on the edge of danger. I remember feeling suspense, unease...none of that existed. Conversely, I felt much less disappointed by the reveal - like the book I remember wasn't the real book, and that now, once confronting my faulty memory, I could see how one betrayed by memory could come to grips with reality and find gratitude in it.

The Beauty of the House is immeasurable; its Kindness infinite.