A couple of days ago I was with a group of friends, all constant readers, talking about re-reading books. Some of us – never. Having read a book once, there was no need to read it again. Or, there are so many new books to read, why would you? Only two of us were constant re-readers. This friend not only buys new novels each month but regularly re-reads her way through her old favourites. Which include the works of Charles Dickens, the Harry Potter series, Noel Streitfield’s ballet stories. She talked about the pleasure of visiting these fictional worlds and people again and again, becoming lost in their lives, knowing they are always there.
I am a re-reader as well. My re-reading falls into a few different categories. I read very fast, often skip-reading, so that sometimes I get to the end and have to go back over a text. If I stop myself in time, and slow right down, I can get so much more from a book.
Then there is re-reading for self-soothing. Literary valium! Books I know so well, I can almost recite along with the text. There are no real ‘surprises’ other than the little bursts of pleasure that come when I encounter the familiar characters and plots, the crises and resolutions and even well-loved phrases or descriptions. Turning the pages, I know that all is safe, I am in good hands, all will end well. I can feel lulled, almost hypnotised, into calm and serenity.
And finally, there is re-reading that (sometimes unexpectedly) makes me wonder what book did I read in the first place? How could I have failed to see this, and this, and this? When I get over myself, and stop feeling inadequate, it’s the kind of re-reading that enlarges my understanding. I know the plot and the people, I’m not caught up in suspense or story, the ending is happy (or not)…but there is so much more.
When I read Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice in Japan, I thought I had been nudged out of complacency. How much I’d missed! But I don’t think I learned my lesson. Not really. I noted a few posts ago that I’d re-read three Austen novels and listed them as ‘comforting old favourites.’
Having just given Emma another whirl, I realised that it was not comforting at all. I was actually shocked by how superficial my previous readings have been. It’s an uncomfortable novel. It (ugh! horror!) makes you think. With the 250th anniversary of Jane Austen’s birth this year, it is probably time to work my way through the five precious novels again. Slowly. With pauses for reflection and admiration. And love and gratitude for these gifts that keep 0n – abundantly, surprisingly – giving.