"If a book read when young is a lover," writes Anne Fadiman in the foreword to her collection "Rereadings," "that same book, reread later on, is a friend."
Five months ago, I assumed responsibility of the books beat, and of the multiple boxes of books that arrive from publishers every week. For the most part, it's been a joy _ a stressful, overworked joy, to be sure, but being surrounded by books (literally, there are stacks rising around me as I type) has always been my fantasy. There's just one problem: not enough time to reread.
I don't know about you, but I reread a lot. If you loved a book, why would you give yourself that pleasure only once? There's something so comforting about the way books remain a still point in time: We move and change in our lives, while the characters in the books stay who they are. It's like looking at a flowering tree at different hours of the day; the way the light falls on it can change it entirely. As readers, we are that changing light.
Recently, for a story, I reread L.M. Montgomery's "Anne of Green Gables" for the umpteenth time; the first time I read it, I would have been younger than its 11-year-old heroine. This time through, I was struck by Anne's relationship with adults in her life, and by the way Anne herself _ in her teens by the book's end _ changed dramatically, in the way that we all do at that age.
I also recently reread a childhood favorite, Frances Hodgson Burnett's "A Little Princess" (a viewing of the musical "The Secret Garden" inspired me), and found myself in tears at the gentle kindness of its ending. I don't remember crying over that book as a child; perhaps then, I didn't realize what a gift a happy ending can be.
But it isn't just kids' books that I like to reread, delightful as that can be. Certain classics can reverberate at different times in life, rewarding a frequent revisit. The poignancy of "The Great Gatsby" never fails to pull me in, even now as I note how very young the characters are. "Jane Eyre" brings some new layer of complexity every time I read it. A friend of mine rereads Virginia Woolf's "To the Lighthouse" every decade, finding that she identifies with different characters at each go-round, and becomes gradually more fascinated by the art of writing.
Rereading mysteries, after a suitable period of time, can be a great pleasure _ particularly if you find, as I often do, that you can't quite remember whodunit. I'm developing a habit of first dashing through Elizabeth George or Tana French or Michael Connelly's books at racehorse speed, just to see what happens, and later savoring a more leisurely stroll through the book, to enjoy the writing. (Time with George's Detective Sergeant Havers, in particular, is always well spent.)
My job gives me an excuse for a fair bit of rereading. I was delighted recently to have an excuse to reread the first two books of Kevin Kwan's "Crazy Rich Asians" trilogy, due to an interview with Kwan for the third book, "Rich People Problems." I could have just read the new book, but it seemed wrong somehow to not start again at the beginning and re-meet all the characters again _ or so my justification went.
Sometimes rereading is sparked by being in a specific place, where you realize that a book might suddenly, in context, make perfect sense. Years ago I reread "Heidi" on a train in the Swiss Alps, and became so engrossed by the descriptions that I had to be prodded to lift my head from the book to look at the real-life scenery. (Clearly I'm a reader first, a traveler second.)
On a trip to Dublin, I rushed out to buy a copy of James Joyce's "Ulysses," which I'd studied in grad school but whose playful, intricate rhythms suddenly seemed to harmonize with the voices I was hearing on the street.
Other books, among many, that I've read repeatedly: Nora Ephron's "Heartburn," which never fails to make me smile _ and to remind me that writing well is the best revenge. Kate Atkinson's brilliant, perpetually restarting "Life After Life," which I suspect I could reread every year until eternity and still not quite figure out how she did it. Donna Tartt's "The Secret History" _ which I just revisited recently, for no particular reason _ for its mastery of ominous mood. These, and so many others, explain why my home is overrun by shelves and stacks of books; I can't quite bear to let most of them go, because some day I might want to read them again.
And, thinking about this topic, one slim book instantly popped into my head: Kazuo Ishiguro's "The Remains of the Day," a Booker Prize winner that's probably better known for the excellent 1993 Merchant-Ivory movie adaptation (which I've re-watched a few times as well _ but that's another topic for another day). Every time I read this book, written in diarylike entries by an aging British butler on a postwar holiday, looking back on his life, it shimmers more brightly.
And oh, that final heartbreaking passage, as Mr. Stevens sits on a pier waiting for evening _ "the best part of the day" _ to fall ... well, I'm just going to have to go read it again. As soon as possible.
