On re-reading
It seems to me that the world of people who read books for pleasure falls into two camps: those who re-read books, and those who do not. And I seriously make no judgment on that either way, but as it so happens, I am among those in the re-reading camp.
I've been a re-reader since before I could read without adult assistance. Early on there were books that I am nearly certain came from the supermarket. My mother remembers reading and re-reading The Little Boy from Shickshinny by Frank Anders and Eileen Daly (thank you, Google for that info), which she loved, but which I don't recall because it got lost in a move. I still have my copies of The Sunshine Book by Helen Federico and The Snowman Book by Joseph Kaufman, both of which were "Golden Shape books", as well as a spiral-bound board book entitled "abc" by Kathie Smart, which was published by McGraw-Hill in 1961.
When I was a young child, I was a huge fan of several Dr. Seuss books. Mostly One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish and Horton Hatches the Egg ("I meant what I said and I said what I meant: an elephant's faithful one hundred percent" - from memory, so the punctuation may be off.) Also in heavy rotation: The Pooh Story Book by A.A. Milne, which came out from Dutton in 1965, given to me by grandmother on my second birthday. The dust jacket, if there was one, is long gone. The green-blue cover has a water stain, and the bottom part of the binding looks as if it's been chewed by a dog (likely). But I digress - I've been waxing nostalgic about the copies still in my possession and thinking back to having my parents read to me.
When I was old enough to read alone, I re-read picture books that I'd brought home from Weekly Reader orders: Gus was a Friendly Ghost by Jane Thayer, illustrated by Seymour Fleishman and New at the Zoo by Peter Lippman. Then I moved on to re-reading The Borrowers books by Mary Norton, Stuart Little E.B. White, Socks by Beverly Cleary ("thith puth putt" went the wallpaper), The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame, The Ghost in the Swing by Janet Patton Smith (about which I'd forgotten until today), Jane-Emily by Patricia Clapp (I must've read it a dozen times), It's Like This, Cat by Emily Cheney Neville (the kitten that got stepped on by a reporter still traumatizes me, even today), and From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler by E.L. Konigsburg (how I wanted to run away and live in a museum!). And, of course, I read and re-read Mandy by Julie Andrews Edwards. I still want a cottage in the woods to call my own, and I harbor a vague affection for purchasing cleaning supplies because of this book.
When I was in 7th grade, my Aunt Martha gave me a boxed set containing paperbacks of The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. I blew threw the books in about three days, then immediately re-read LOTR. I've read The Hobbit once or twice since then, but I've read LOTR at least 20 times over the years, including several times in the years when the movies came out. Even though they didn't come out until I was an adult, I've read all the Harry Potter books at least twice (the later books fewer times than the earlier books - so far - but I've read the first three at least a dozen times). And there are other books that I've re-read as an adult as well. Jane Austen's novels come to mind, for instance; Dickens's A Christmas Carol and Tale of Two Cities, Flowers for Algernon by Daniel Keys,
In some ways, this post probably sounds like a self-indulgent trip down memory lane. But in reality, that's the source of the joy in re-reading. If I pick up The Sunshine Book, I can remember being four and reading the book to myself on the front steps of a house in Narberth, PA. If I pick up my old library copy of Jane-Emily (not stolen, a gift from a librarian who was weeding her collection), I can remember being in the fifth grade and borrowing that same book, again and again, because there was something so riveting about the scene in the garden where Emily's wilful spirit is finally challenged. (For anyone out there who knows the book, or would like to, it's recently been re-issued by Harper Paperbacks - that's the new cover on the left.) When I re-read Harry Potter, it's not just middle-aged me that reads it; teen-aged Kelly comes along for the ride, too. In fact, had these books existed back then, they'd have been my favorite books. But the portion of my psyche that never moved past the ages of twelve and sixteen surfaces to read those books along with me, and I feel the same level of joy in reading that I did when I was those ages.
Folks who don't re-read don't always understand why I re-read a book, or how I can possibly enjoy reading something again (and, in some cases, again). The answer is that the feeling I get when I re-read is the same delight I get from watching a familiar movie or eating certain foods: as long as it's something I enjoy, its familiarity is comforting. And in the case of some books (and some movies), my level of delight in the story and/or its characters actually increases with familiarity. Each time I read A Christmas Carol, I worry for poor Tiny Tim, and I laugh more heartily at the funny bits and I admire still more Dickens's amazing use of language.
Each time I read Lord of the Rings, I find different bits that really appeal to me. And when Sam has to send Bill the pony packing outside the caves of Moria, I cry. Every. single. time. (I still skip the bits in Elfish, although I have read the translations and footnotes and whatnot in my new and improved edition that I bought a few years back because the old paperbacks were starting to break, finally, and had yellowed so badly that they were becoming unpleasant to look at. And these days, I find the two-page descriptions of scenery to be a big cumbersome sometimes, so depending on my mood, I may scan ahead a paragraph or so. But I still love the books.)
Recent re-reads include Rules by Cynthia Lord, A Crooked Kind of Perfect by Linda Urban, Once Upon a Marigold by Jean Ferris, A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens, and Winnie-the-Pooh by A.A. Milne, as well as a fair number of individual poems, which is another topic altogether, although related.
Where do you fall? Re-read or no? And if you re-read, why do you do it?
I've been a re-reader since before I could read without adult assistance. Early on there were books that I am nearly certain came from the supermarket. My mother remembers reading and re-reading The Little Boy from Shickshinny by Frank Anders and Eileen Daly (thank you, Google for that info), which she loved, but which I don't recall because it got lost in a move. I still have my copies of The Sunshine Book by Helen Federico and The Snowman Book by Joseph Kaufman, both of which were "Golden Shape books", as well as a spiral-bound board book entitled "abc" by Kathie Smart, which was published by McGraw-Hill in 1961.
When I was a young child, I was a huge fan of several Dr. Seuss books. Mostly One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish and Horton Hatches the Egg ("I meant what I said and I said what I meant: an elephant's faithful one hundred percent" - from memory, so the punctuation may be off.) Also in heavy rotation: The Pooh Story Book by A.A. Milne, which came out from Dutton in 1965, given to me by grandmother on my second birthday. The dust jacket, if there was one, is long gone. The green-blue cover has a water stain, and the bottom part of the binding looks as if it's been chewed by a dog (likely). But I digress - I've been waxing nostalgic about the copies still in my possession and thinking back to having my parents read to me.
When I was old enough to read alone, I re-read picture books that I'd brought home from Weekly Reader orders: Gus was a Friendly Ghost by Jane Thayer, illustrated by Seymour Fleishman and New at the Zoo by Peter Lippman. Then I moved on to re-reading The Borrowers books by Mary Norton, Stuart Little E.B. White, Socks by Beverly Cleary ("thith puth putt" went the wallpaper), The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame, The Ghost in the Swing by Janet Patton Smith (about which I'd forgotten until today), Jane-Emily by Patricia Clapp (I must've read it a dozen times), It's Like This, Cat by Emily Cheney Neville (the kitten that got stepped on by a reporter still traumatizes me, even today), and From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler by E.L. Konigsburg (how I wanted to run away and live in a museum!). And, of course, I read and re-read Mandy by Julie Andrews Edwards. I still want a cottage in the woods to call my own, and I harbor a vague affection for purchasing cleaning supplies because of this book.
When I was in 7th grade, my Aunt Martha gave me a boxed set containing paperbacks of The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. I blew threw the books in about three days, then immediately re-read LOTR. I've read The Hobbit once or twice since then, but I've read LOTR at least 20 times over the years, including several times in the years when the movies came out. Even though they didn't come out until I was an adult, I've read all the Harry Potter books at least twice (the later books fewer times than the earlier books - so far - but I've read the first three at least a dozen times). And there are other books that I've re-read as an adult as well. Jane Austen's novels come to mind, for instance; Dickens's A Christmas Carol and Tale of Two Cities, Flowers for Algernon by Daniel Keys,
In some ways, this post probably sounds like a self-indulgent trip down memory lane. But in reality, that's the source of the joy in re-reading. If I pick up The Sunshine Book, I can remember being four and reading the book to myself on the front steps of a house in Narberth, PA. If I pick up my old library copy of Jane-Emily (not stolen, a gift from a librarian who was weeding her collection), I can remember being in the fifth grade and borrowing that same book, again and again, because there was something so riveting about the scene in the garden where Emily's wilful spirit is finally challenged. (For anyone out there who knows the book, or would like to, it's recently been re-issued by Harper Paperbacks - that's the new cover on the left.) When I re-read Harry Potter, it's not just middle-aged me that reads it; teen-aged Kelly comes along for the ride, too. In fact, had these books existed back then, they'd have been my favorite books. But the portion of my psyche that never moved past the ages of twelve and sixteen surfaces to read those books along with me, and I feel the same level of joy in reading that I did when I was those ages.
Folks who don't re-read don't always understand why I re-read a book, or how I can possibly enjoy reading something again (and, in some cases, again). The answer is that the feeling I get when I re-read is the same delight I get from watching a familiar movie or eating certain foods: as long as it's something I enjoy, its familiarity is comforting. And in the case of some books (and some movies), my level of delight in the story and/or its characters actually increases with familiarity. Each time I read A Christmas Carol, I worry for poor Tiny Tim, and I laugh more heartily at the funny bits and I admire still more Dickens's amazing use of language.
Each time I read Lord of the Rings, I find different bits that really appeal to me. And when Sam has to send Bill the pony packing outside the caves of Moria, I cry. Every. single. time. (I still skip the bits in Elfish, although I have read the translations and footnotes and whatnot in my new and improved edition that I bought a few years back because the old paperbacks were starting to break, finally, and had yellowed so badly that they were becoming unpleasant to look at. And these days, I find the two-page descriptions of scenery to be a big cumbersome sometimes, so depending on my mood, I may scan ahead a paragraph or so. But I still love the books.)
Recent re-reads include Rules by Cynthia Lord, A Crooked Kind of Perfect by Linda Urban, Once Upon a Marigold by Jean Ferris, A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens, and Winnie-the-Pooh by A.A. Milne, as well as a fair number of individual poems, which is another topic altogether, although related.
Where do you fall? Re-read or no? And if you re-read, why do you do it?