It's not You, she said, It's Me

The notion that some books are better read at a certain point in life is not a new one. I’m not talking about age-appropriate literature, even if I had a lot of fun with Hoot, Carl Hiaasen’s mystery novel aimed at the 9-12 crowd. Full disclosure, I didn’t know it was a kid’s novel when I bought it! And yes, the book is hilarious. I believe it can be enjoyed at any age, which gets me closer to the theme of this post.

Jim, my husband, has been reading The Stories of John Cheever (61 stories, 700 pages) over the past few months, one or two at a time, small doses. They are presented in chronological order and span Cheever’s long career. It is a strangely intimate experience, learning to know a person through the writing, seeing him evolve and yes, get older. Jim commented that he might not have reacted to some of the stories, or appreciated them the same way if he had read them twenty years ago.

That got us into a conversation about the books we read and when we read them, and does a beloved piece of literature remain a favorite over time, or do we find out that the shine is gone when we re-read it. Which leads to the next question: should a book be re-read or is it a unique experience that can’t be repeated. And what about the extraordinary books that can be peeled like an onion to reveal new layers over time, with each iteration?

Because I’m a fast reader, I’m also a compulsive re-reader. It doesn’t help me get my to-be-read pile under control …

First case in point. James Ellroy’s L.A. Confidential – you either love the man’s writing or you hate it. I had an Ellroy phase/crush that lasted all through the 90s and 00s. I still read him even if I’ve gotten a bit tired of the Tommy-gun hacksaw style. But L.A. Confidential, yes, it was a high point at first read and it still rocks. It’s also a hardback edition, so it has prime display position on the shelves. Not a day passes without me snapping a glance at it … it remains top-of-mind as they say in the ad world.

On the opposite end of the spectrum: Frank Herbert’s Dune. I was bowled over when I read it. I was in my twenties—I know, I was late to the party, the book is a teenage rite of passage … Anyway, I devoured the entire series, 6 books, without taking a breath, and on a single metaphorical glass of water. Completely transfixed. When the new movie came out (I liked it), I figured I should revisit, although the plot and characters were branded in my memory. Spoiler alert: I couldn’t go past the first ten pages. Pretty sad. It wasn’t the book. It was me. I guess I grew up without realizing it. Now I’m afraid to jump into Tolkien again. Maybe I should leave well enough alone. Don’t go scratch the good memories.

In case you think I’ve moved away from fantasy land, and only get my kicks from the hard stuff these days, let me offer a rebuttal. The Talisman (Stephen King and Peter Straub) has kept all its magic intact, after 4 or 5 visits, at least. Another one might be in the works. I know what happens, the ending, every hop and skip, and I still get transported, which makes sense considering what the book is about.

And then there are surprises.

I have the habit, when I love an author, to read everything in the bibliography (I’m on a Sam Wiebe diet right now.) I was eighteen when I tore through Kafka and Camus, they must have matched my mood. I haven’t opened anything from Franz since then, but Albert still keeps me company.

Around the same time, I subjected F. Scott Fitzgerald to the same wholesale treatment. I remember liking the books but they didn’t leave a solid impression. A few years ago, I was trying to organize my bookshelves (it’s a work in constant progress) and stumbled on a pile of old Penguin paperbacks. I must have contributed significantly to the publisher’s bottom line, because these books are all over the place. I remembered that This Side of Paradise was Fitzgerald’s debut novel and (thinly disguised) autobiography. I was going on vacation, a beach and sea stay that would give me a lot of time to read. I slipped the book in my travel bag, added a couple of page turners, for safety, in case Francis Scott bored me to death.

I don’t remember what the page turners were about but I found Paradise fascinating. The years made all the difference. Again, it wasn’t you Mr. Fitzgerald, it was me.

Thank you for reading, friends, and if you have stories of books rediscovered or abandoned, tell me in the comments, I’d like to know ….