I was having a conversation with a friend a while ago, and she mentioned that she re-reads Gone with the Wind on a regular basis – like once a year. This was shocking to me <insert shocked face GIF>.
Since that conversation, I have been reflecting on my own reading habits. I will happily sit down and watch of the same episode Sex and the City, or Say Yes to the Dress hundreds of times and not think about it. I have seen certain movies MANY times: Casablanca, The Godfather, Mary Poppins (yeah, I have an eclectic taste in movies). There is a comfort in these things. If I am tired and I don’t feel like paying too much attention, I flip on something I’ve seen many times and mindlessly enjoy.
But why not a book? This is the question that I have been pondering. It has never crossed my mind to sit down and say, I am going to re-read The Wind Up Bird Chronicle, or Big Little Lies again because I loved it so much. But why?
The adventure of reading: there is something about discovering a book and what will happen that gives me joy and pleasure in reading. And when I know the ending, or what will happen I think that joy will be taken out of the read.
So many books, so little time: there are so many books out there to read and I will never have enough time to do it. I would rather experience something new.
Cherishing of time and place: my love of a book may be dependent on the time and place and age that I read it. I fear that if I go back and read it again, it will loose that lustre for me. It’s like, I want to remember the book as it was to me at the time.
I will say I am now curious about this and have been pondering what book I would re-read if I decide to. Maybe I will become a re-reader.