But did anyone ever step twice into the same book?

From Pushkin and Pugachev (1937) by Marina Tsvetaeva.

There are books so alive that you’re always afraid that while you weren’t reading, the book has gone and changed, has shifted like a river; while you went on living, it went on living too, and like a river moved on and moved away. No one has stepped twice into the same river. But did anyone ever step twice into the same book?