After discovering Liane Moriarty’s book The Husband’s Secret, I proceeded to read through her oeuvre. I recommend every one, though I have my favorites, one of which is Big Little Lies. My husband had another work emergency this weekend, so last night I decided to watch the HBO adaptation. I’m not much of a binge watcher, so I’ve only seen two episodes.

Both the book and the series reveal at the start that the climax of the story arc will be a suspicious death, but we don’t know whose. My reading experience was fraught by this knowledge, and I found myself mentally beseeching while I read: Don’t kill off this person, please…That one might be ok. 

The miniseries so far is true to the book in all important ways. The setting moved from near-Sydney beachfront to Monterey, which is fun for me, and of course HBO added more explicit sex. This time around, I’m the omniscient viewer. I can compare the characterizations and observe changes in emphasis, notice foreshadowing in the acting and writing, and critique additions and omissions.

The experience of revisiting a familiar story in a new medium is similar to that of listening to a performance of a very familiar classical piece with a different soloist or orchestra. Knowing the notes well frees me to listen to the substructure, admire the variations on the themes, enjoy the interplay among the sections, and appreciate the virtuosity. The experience of hearing an amazing piece of music the first time is more likely to be transformative, while deep exploration of familiar music is more broadly satisfying.

Is all of life such? Getting to know new friends in California is fun and exciting, yet we are look forward to a relaxing and rejuvenating time with old friends in Massachusetts. Aruba was a paradise found during the first visit, then after several, the iguanas and flamingos seem to recognize us, and we smile rather than stare at azure water and building without doors. Playing the ukulele is a learning curve of new concepts like strumming and frets, while on the piano I can explore more intricate music.

But I feel I have gone off-track. This post is calling out to me to acknowledge another distinction, a distinction of quality. Jumping from Liane Moriarty, as much as I enjoy her work, to classical music is comparing a simple, entertaining book to very complex music. I could more fittingly have chosen Willie Nelson or The Cars. Instead of watching HBO, maybe I will re-read The Grapes of Wrath.