This season has been one of re-reading books from my past. This was not deliberate; it just seemed that every time I reached for a new book, the closest at hand was one I had read before.
I do not generally re-read books that often. Every five years or so, I find something that impresses me so much that I read it twice over. (Hokey Pokey would be the most recent example.) But beyond that, all my re-reading is the result of research or teaching. My typical attitude is breadth over depth. I tend to read one book from an author and then move on to the next thing.
However, this recent sprint of re-reads has forced me to reflect on what a pleasure it is to come back to a book after time off. To live inside a story more than is absolutely necessary. When I was younger, I re-read books all the time. At around 10 years old, I fell deeply in love with Through The Looking-Glass. (It actually began when I saw a staged musical version of the story.) I proceeded to read chapters from Looking-Glass every night before bed for the next 10 years. Now, when I look back that same book, I struggle to understand why it had so grabbed me. But I do feel a deep appreciation for the book and how it shaped my imagination.
When I think of re-reading, I am reminded of something Jacqueline Woodson once said in an NPR interview. Woodson was being asked to remark about the fact that her older sister was actually the serious reader in the family–and how strange it was that Woodson ended up being the one to devote her life to literature. I don’t have the transcript, but I recall her saying something about the fact that even though she did not read many books growing up, when she did read, she went deep. That’s something I can identify with. And it’s something I had forgotten about as of late.