not just C.S.L. but when and where and why

The discussion on crowleycrow of C. S. Lewis and the other habitués of the Bird and Baby back in the day (also of the Don Camillo novels, which I had quite forgotten about) reminds me of the whole business of why we never read the same books other people have read, even when they have the same author's names and titles on them: we read according to what we are moving towards or rebelling against, what we lack in our lives and would like to see more of someday, what we project all our values into even though we will be disappointed once we see the real thing, and so on....

All of which we know, but when we read a succession of heartfelt comments we realize anew that we tend to forgive literary or personal flaws and/or condemn them vehemently according to what other functions the book or the author fulfills for us. There are some perfectly dreadful books we cannot imagine having gotten through life without, and a fair number of certified greats who not only did not speak to our condition, they didn't connect with our aesthetic imaginations either, and we never got past page ten of their required-reading revered tomes. (Which I typed just now as "reversed.")