Rereading
The literary establishment has traditionally had a sniffy attitude towards rereading books - rather like the old boot of a librarian who snipes, "You're borrowing that again?" They trot out a list of stale arguments: it's lazy, unimaginative, means you're missing out on a life changing experience, intellectually dishonest etc.
When you think about it, none of these sweeping statements hold water. Can you imagine making them about any other art form? "No, you can't listen to Hey, Jude more than once?" "Don't look at Daffodils, it'll ruin you for other paintings?" Surely the mark of something decent is you want to return to it time and time again, like your favourite film. It'd be awful if you could only see one performance of a Shakespeare play, for example.
Okay, these stubborn blighters might persist, but what about stories with twists? Eh?
At first this sounds like a checkmate - but on further consideration, it doesn't need to be. If you allow yourself sufficient time to forget, say ten years or so, you're experiencing that shock revelation all over again. If you're like me, and cursed with a near photographic memory for every book you've read, it can be fun to follow the clues. A twist shouldn't be the equivalent of a lion bursting out of a lift; the smart writer leaves hints in plain sight, only clicking once we have all the facts.
Why does Mr Wickham say love for Darcy Sr means he'll never slander the son, but the instant Fitzwilliam leaves the county, slags him off to all and sundry? If Miss Havisham is Pip's mystery benefactor, why does she act like she can't stand him? Not knowing any better, we take this puzzling behaviour at face value.
Anybody who's gone through the educational system knows you have to read a set text whether you like it or not. Although there are books I heartily detested at school, and do to this day (Lord of the Flies springs to mind), others have grown on me. I have quite a friendly relationship with Nineteen Eighty Four nowadays, for example, and The Crucible. In the former instance I was too young to appreciate it; in the latter, any enjoyment was sucked up after studying it two years in a row.
In some cases, you might not have strong feelings for or against but feel you ought to give it a second chance. Perhaps it'll read differently now you're older; perhaps somebody's spotted something you'd never have noticed in a million years. Returning to books I read as a kid, I'm frequently amazed by how well they hold up to adult scrutiny. Sophisticated intertextual references, jokes that are still funny, compelling characters and relevant themes. The Winnie the Pooh books don't sound as though they'd be repositories for wit but believe me, they're hysterical, particularly the deliciously deadpan Eeyore. (Though watch out for Rabbit. That's one bunny who deserves to be boiled).
Snobbery aside, the best rereads are the books we've turned to when we're bored, lonely or sick, and never found wanting. I call these hot water bottle books. Looking over my favourites, they're too edgy and weird to offer much comfort, but there are two I like to snuggle up with: I Capture the Castle and The Wind in the Willows. In some twenty four years as a voracious reader, I've yet to find anything as funny as Rose being mistaken for a bear, or Toad's conceited odes to himself. Possibly I've missed out something earth shattering the twenty or so times I've read either - but frankly I don't give a damn.
When you think about it, none of these sweeping statements hold water. Can you imagine making them about any other art form? "No, you can't listen to Hey, Jude more than once?" "Don't look at Daffodils, it'll ruin you for other paintings?" Surely the mark of something decent is you want to return to it time and time again, like your favourite film. It'd be awful if you could only see one performance of a Shakespeare play, for example.
Okay, these stubborn blighters might persist, but what about stories with twists? Eh?
At first this sounds like a checkmate - but on further consideration, it doesn't need to be. If you allow yourself sufficient time to forget, say ten years or so, you're experiencing that shock revelation all over again. If you're like me, and cursed with a near photographic memory for every book you've read, it can be fun to follow the clues. A twist shouldn't be the equivalent of a lion bursting out of a lift; the smart writer leaves hints in plain sight, only clicking once we have all the facts.
Why does Mr Wickham say love for Darcy Sr means he'll never slander the son, but the instant Fitzwilliam leaves the county, slags him off to all and sundry? If Miss Havisham is Pip's mystery benefactor, why does she act like she can't stand him? Not knowing any better, we take this puzzling behaviour at face value.
Anybody who's gone through the educational system knows you have to read a set text whether you like it or not. Although there are books I heartily detested at school, and do to this day (Lord of the Flies springs to mind), others have grown on me. I have quite a friendly relationship with Nineteen Eighty Four nowadays, for example, and The Crucible. In the former instance I was too young to appreciate it; in the latter, any enjoyment was sucked up after studying it two years in a row.
In some cases, you might not have strong feelings for or against but feel you ought to give it a second chance. Perhaps it'll read differently now you're older; perhaps somebody's spotted something you'd never have noticed in a million years. Returning to books I read as a kid, I'm frequently amazed by how well they hold up to adult scrutiny. Sophisticated intertextual references, jokes that are still funny, compelling characters and relevant themes. The Winnie the Pooh books don't sound as though they'd be repositories for wit but believe me, they're hysterical, particularly the deliciously deadpan Eeyore. (Though watch out for Rabbit. That's one bunny who deserves to be boiled).
Snobbery aside, the best rereads are the books we've turned to when we're bored, lonely or sick, and never found wanting. I call these hot water bottle books. Looking over my favourites, they're too edgy and weird to offer much comfort, but there are two I like to snuggle up with: I Capture the Castle and The Wind in the Willows. In some twenty four years as a voracious reader, I've yet to find anything as funny as Rose being mistaken for a bear, or Toad's conceited odes to himself. Possibly I've missed out something earth shattering the twenty or so times I've read either - but frankly I don't give a damn.
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