by Antonio Napoli

An English traveler, having arrived in an African village, was welcomed into the king’s palace. While waiting for an audience, he lit his pipe with a coal taken from the fire burning before the throne. He was immediately arrested and sentenced to death: everything the king’s hand had touched was sacred, and the king himself, though he could delegate, would always light the fire with his own hands.

The foreigner, quick-witted, appealed to his usefulness: dead, he said, he would be of no service to His Majesty with his particular gift—the knowledge of many languages and the art of telling other people’s stories. Intrigued, the king decided to spare him and kept him at court. This did not displease the traveler, who, in truth, was fleeing from creditors left hungry in his homeland.

One day, after bringing several territories under his rule, the king ordered the foreigner to write a book recounting his deeds. Months passed, and the work progressed with fervor. When it was finally completed, the foreigner presented the book, hoping for a favorable judgment. The king read it carefully but, in the end, appeared disappointed: the book was detailed, yet something was missing.

Matters of state required the sovereign to return to battle. Before leaving, he ordered the foreigner to rewrite the book, this time making it truly worthy of his glory. A few months later, the king returned and found the new book waiting for him on his bed. He read it eagerly, and upon finishing, rushed to find the foreigner to praise him for the splendid result.

It was then that the foreigner, with an enigmatic smile, took back the volume and added a sentence:
“To understand a book, one must read it at least twice.”

The king understood instantly: he had not read two different books, but the same book twice. And only on the second reading had he grasped its true greatness.