Reading and Re-reading

In the world of readers, I think there are two sorts: those who re-read and those who don't.

When I mention that I enjoy re-reading, I'm often given a blank stare. The question from this sort of reader is, inevitably, 'Why would you want to read a book you've read before?'

These are the people who - quite honestly - ask why would one want to read a book when one already knows how it's going to end.

I suppose this says something about this sort of reader. They read for different reasons from what I do.  While I love the thrill, the joy of hanging on to find out what's going to happen to those characters I've come to care for, it's not the only reason I read. Or re-read.

On re-reading, I can linger over favourite passages, admiring turns of phrase, cadences, subtleties.

On re-reading it's like visting an old friend, one I know well, but enjoy nonetheless. Not for surprises, but for familiarity.

On re-reading, I can still be moved by emotional moments, even though I know they're coming. I can still feel bereft at the end of the book, even though I know that the ending was going to unfold that way.

On re-reading I can be reminded of where and who I was when I read it last.  I can be transported back there, for a moment.

I've read some old favourite books dozens of times. Often they're books from childhood ('Wind in the Willows', 'The House at Pooh Corner') but they can be adult books too. I  love opening a cherished book at launching on the journey again.

Sometimes it's an itch, a need. I prowl around, unsettled,before I realise that I need a hit of Bronte, a nip of Simmons, a snifter of Powers. My soul is soothed by what they do for me.

This might explain, of course, why I rarely throw away books. If I need, desperately, to re-read a book and IT'S NOT THERE, READY AT HAND ... Well, things get turbulent.

Life: so little time, so many books.