On Re-reading
- Aug 7, 2016
- 2 min read
Sometimes, I feel guilty about my proclivity to re-read books. There are SO MANY books in the world that I haven't read, and so many on my list that it feels almost lazy to fall back into a tried-and-true story.
On many occasions, though, I've found that nothing comforts and cultivates like re-reading. I do it every year, particularly if I'm slogging through something I don't love (I like to finish almost everything I start -- sometimes books get better). I'll put that guy on the shelf for a bit and open one of my favorites: usually A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Anne of Green Gables (or Avonlea, or the Island, or Windy Poplars, etc.), or Harry Potter. For the latter two, I'll sometimes slip into a Netflix-like binge and read the entire series in a few weeks. That feels a lot like overdoing it, even for me.
But the thing is, when I re-read a book, I almost always find something new to focus on or learn. Books are living -- long after we've finished the last page. I first read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn when I was 11, and I've read it probably every two or three years since then. Each time, I can relate to Francie in a different way. This is particularly true in a coming of age story like this one; as I age, I track differently with the protagonist, and the book has a different feel. But there are other types of books I've reread for different reasons -- because I rushed through it in a college class, maybe, or because I read it so long ago I kind of completely forget what happened, or because I read something else by the same author and got nostalgic.
On this blog, I'll be reading a lot of new fiction (and maybe even some non-fiction, but I'm not making any promises). But I have to admit that I'll likely dive back into old favorites a few times too, and I can't wait to write about that home-like feeling -- like taking a look around a favorite room with fresh eyes.
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