reading and re-reading
After discovering that my traditional Christmas reads are becoming too numerous to handle in addition to the pile of books I've been saving for Christmas break, I've come to the staggering conclusion that 1) I will need to let go of some traditions; and 2) I enjoy re-reading things far more than reading them the first time.
(What are some of my traditional books? I hear you ask. Maybe. A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens; Hogfather, Terry Pratchett; at least one of The Chronicles of Narnia, C.S. Lewis; and a couple others. That's the reduced list. Jane Eyre is more of a summer tradition, as are Robin McKinley's books, and the Thursday Next series by Jasper Fforde.)
I love re-reading books. I love having a book for a certain time of the year, for a certain part of my life. I love seeing a book at the library that I first read when I was eight years old and probably too young for it, and I can pick it up now and have that delicious first line again. ("When I was nine years old, I hid under a table and heard my sister kill a king." -Quest for a Maid, Frances Mary Hendry) I love having books that become part of me- they carve out a place inside that will never be quite whole until I read that book again.
When I first read a book, I read it so fast- I speed read naturally, and in a novel, I just want to know what happens, who lives, who gets together with who, and what really happened. (This confused the hell out of me the first time I read Robin McKinley's Rose Daughter- I couldn't figure it out: Is she inside the castle? Outside? Is there a castle at all? Where the hell's the Beast? Sweet pantheon, what is going on? But then on the third go-round I finally got it.) The second time I read the book, I discover what happened with the minor characters, what confusing parts of the plot I overlooked, and some of the jokes; I can start to appreciate the language at that point, because I already know what's happened.
The third re-reading, though... that one is the best. Finally I have a strong grasp on what's going on, I can cherish the style and language properly, I can appreciate the structure and devices... and that is when a book really becomes a piece of my heart: when it is as familiar and comforting as my favorite hoodie, and so new and sparkling and fantastic that I can be totally delighted with every page. When I'm not reading for mere information and plot anymore, but I can feel the love and despair of the characters, and truly experience the wiggles of suspense in my tummy, waiting for the next event.
I can't wait to finish reading Elizabeth Peters' Amelia Peabody series so I can begin reading those again, and falling in love with Amelia and Emerson and Ramses and Nefret again. I read Joann Sfar and Emmanuel Guibert's graphic novella The Professor's Daughter again tonight, and realized what an utter gem this book is- Victorians, and mummies, and kidnappings, and Egyptology, and Queen Victoria getting tossed in the Thames- all told through completely beautiful watercolor illustrations. I would absolutely adore the chance to read George Eliot's Middlemarch a second time; I had to read it quickly for school, but while the plot and narrative was extremely slow-paced, the characters and the quirky observations were so fascinating and wonderful.
I won't get to read all that I want to before school starts again. I probably won't read The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins, and the chances of me finishing Michael Cox's The Meaning of Night are fairly slim, as well. I don't think I'll be able to hold out much longer on Lord of the Silent, the next book in the Amelia Peabody series for me to read, even though I am trying to save them. (Which is a lie, actually. The only reason I'm not reading it is because if I do I will lose interest in all other things, and I want to get other things read, too. SO! COMPLICATED!)
But the next thing I'm picking up, for sure, is the first book in The Chronicles of Narnia- The Magician's Nephew. Narnia was not the first nor the last series of books to get into my heart and stay there, but they have been some of the longest-lasting. I think I was seven when I first read them, and Narnia, in the way of imagination and joy, has been home to me ever since. I love the books, and their little illustrations, and the colored map of Narnia on the inside cover. I love the radio plays I have of them, and how something in me just leaps when I hear the theme music, and Douglas Gresham (C.S. Lewis' stepson) do the introduction. The Magician's Nephew is going to be the one I read this time, because I want that world- that beautiful, new world, sung into place by Aslan, and the adventures necessary to get there.
Because I love going on a good adventure- on one of my favorite adventures.
"This is a story about something that happened long ago when your grandfather was a child. It is a very important story because it shows how all the comings and goings between our own world and Narnia first began. In those days Mr Sherlock Holmes was still living in Baker Street and the Bastables were looking for treasure in Lewisham Road. In those days if you were a boy you had to wear a stiff Eton collar every day, and schools were usually nastier than now. But meals were nicer; and as for sweets, I won't tell you how cheap and good they were, because it would only make your mouth water in vain. And in those days there lived in London a girl called Polly Plummer."
(What are some of my traditional books? I hear you ask. Maybe. A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens; Hogfather, Terry Pratchett; at least one of The Chronicles of Narnia, C.S. Lewis; and a couple others. That's the reduced list. Jane Eyre is more of a summer tradition, as are Robin McKinley's books, and the Thursday Next series by Jasper Fforde.)
I love re-reading books. I love having a book for a certain time of the year, for a certain part of my life. I love seeing a book at the library that I first read when I was eight years old and probably too young for it, and I can pick it up now and have that delicious first line again. ("When I was nine years old, I hid under a table and heard my sister kill a king." -Quest for a Maid, Frances Mary Hendry) I love having books that become part of me- they carve out a place inside that will never be quite whole until I read that book again.
When I first read a book, I read it so fast- I speed read naturally, and in a novel, I just want to know what happens, who lives, who gets together with who, and what really happened. (This confused the hell out of me the first time I read Robin McKinley's Rose Daughter- I couldn't figure it out: Is she inside the castle? Outside? Is there a castle at all? Where the hell's the Beast? Sweet pantheon, what is going on? But then on the third go-round I finally got it.) The second time I read the book, I discover what happened with the minor characters, what confusing parts of the plot I overlooked, and some of the jokes; I can start to appreciate the language at that point, because I already know what's happened.
The third re-reading, though... that one is the best. Finally I have a strong grasp on what's going on, I can cherish the style and language properly, I can appreciate the structure and devices... and that is when a book really becomes a piece of my heart: when it is as familiar and comforting as my favorite hoodie, and so new and sparkling and fantastic that I can be totally delighted with every page. When I'm not reading for mere information and plot anymore, but I can feel the love and despair of the characters, and truly experience the wiggles of suspense in my tummy, waiting for the next event.
I can't wait to finish reading Elizabeth Peters' Amelia Peabody series so I can begin reading those again, and falling in love with Amelia and Emerson and Ramses and Nefret again. I read Joann Sfar and Emmanuel Guibert's graphic novella The Professor's Daughter again tonight, and realized what an utter gem this book is- Victorians, and mummies, and kidnappings, and Egyptology, and Queen Victoria getting tossed in the Thames- all told through completely beautiful watercolor illustrations. I would absolutely adore the chance to read George Eliot's Middlemarch a second time; I had to read it quickly for school, but while the plot and narrative was extremely slow-paced, the characters and the quirky observations were so fascinating and wonderful.
I won't get to read all that I want to before school starts again. I probably won't read The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins, and the chances of me finishing Michael Cox's The Meaning of Night are fairly slim, as well. I don't think I'll be able to hold out much longer on Lord of the Silent, the next book in the Amelia Peabody series for me to read, even though I am trying to save them. (Which is a lie, actually. The only reason I'm not reading it is because if I do I will lose interest in all other things, and I want to get other things read, too. SO! COMPLICATED!)
But the next thing I'm picking up, for sure, is the first book in The Chronicles of Narnia- The Magician's Nephew. Narnia was not the first nor the last series of books to get into my heart and stay there, but they have been some of the longest-lasting. I think I was seven when I first read them, and Narnia, in the way of imagination and joy, has been home to me ever since. I love the books, and their little illustrations, and the colored map of Narnia on the inside cover. I love the radio plays I have of them, and how something in me just leaps when I hear the theme music, and Douglas Gresham (C.S. Lewis' stepson) do the introduction. The Magician's Nephew is going to be the one I read this time, because I want that world- that beautiful, new world, sung into place by Aslan, and the adventures necessary to get there.
Because I love going on a good adventure- on one of my favorite adventures.
"This is a story about something that happened long ago when your grandfather was a child. It is a very important story because it shows how all the comings and goings between our own world and Narnia first began. In those days Mr Sherlock Holmes was still living in Baker Street and the Bastables were looking for treasure in Lewisham Road. In those days if you were a boy you had to wear a stiff Eton collar every day, and schools were usually nastier than now. But meals were nicer; and as for sweets, I won't tell you how cheap and good they were, because it would only make your mouth water in vain. And in those days there lived in London a girl called Polly Plummer."