Jun 20 2006
Reading…
“What is it about re-reading old books that is so appealing?” ask those people who do not like to repeat anything? “How can you stand to watch a movie you’ve already seen before?” they exclaim with much confusion. For they, themselves, would never condescend to re-read something they have read many times over.
I cannot answer you. I could point to my childhood and remember that new books weren’t always easy to obtain. (Mind you, my parents encouraged my addictive behavior whenever they could, but that is not to say they always could.) I could tell you that I had to re-read old books or risk going into withdrawal. How many times did I read the Children’s Classics version of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and wonder at the desperation of a man who would try out his own volatile creation on himself? How many times did I read the Return of the Twelves and exclaim with glee when Butter Crashey marched with his compatriots all over the house of Max, the Jinn? How often did I read Bunnicula and become creeped out at the white vegetables, drained of their juices? So many books…so many stories…I devoured them all. However, I must point out that I have friends who had access to far more books than I, and they too exhibit this addictive behavior wherein they re-read books over and over again.
Ultimately, I suppose, it comes down to my love of familiarity. I knew these books. I knew the stories contained within. Returning to the warmth of that familiarity was like sitting around with old friends, telling stories. Laughing uproariously at stories that were funny because they were good stories, whether or not you knew what would happen. In every retelling of a good story I heard something new…I picked up on currents that I had not understood or grasped at the time. Each time the story unfolded, I was again grasped with suspense when the villain looked like he had the upper hand, and each time the protagonist prevailed, I breathed a sigh of relief.
My books were my thread of stability in a world that was anything but stable. When I was hanging out with the wrong crowd, getting involved in things I shouldn’t have been getting involved in, I always came home; not to my dwelling place, though I did live there. Rather, home was where I could sit with my old friends, the books, who did not change, or if they did, they acquired marks of familiarity that could reunite me with pieces of my life. The dog-eared page that reminded me of my mother insisting that I do my summer chores before I sat around all day reading (bookmarks were never to be found when you needed them). The bent cover that reminded me of my father tickling me until I flung the book across the room to better defend myself against the dreaded Tickle Monster. And yes, even the occasional ripped and taped-back-together page that reminded me of my sister, who really knew how to antagonize me by torturing my beloved friends, the books.
As I sit and think about all the enjoyment I had in reading my books growing up, I am gripped by the certainty that the why’s and the wherefores do not really matter. Why did I read my books over and over? Because I loved to do so. It gave me joy. In a world where the occurrences of joy are so few and unpredictable, why not retreat to the world of literature, where I could fence alongside the Three Musketeers? Why not turn again to the pages of another world, where I could study to be a wizard with Randal? (before Harry Potter…much before.) Why not escape into the predictable enjoyment of reading books?
Why not, indeed?
on