A little while ago there was an excellent discussion here on the blog about re-reading, kicked off by my friend Catherine, an avid re-reader who was shocked to hear that I rarely read a book more than once, regardless of how much I enjoyed it. This conversation continued well into the comments; thanks, all of you, for sharing your experiences and arguments. I was fascinated and, ultimately, persuaded: I have accepted Catherine’s challenge to re-read a book.  Though, given all my reservations and hang-ups around re-reading, even choosing the book was a bit complicated.One of the reasons I don’t re-read is that I like to protect myself seeing how old and, er, sophisticated I’ve become. (Case in point: my sister and I rented Biodome when we were about 14 and 15 respectively; we thought it was the funniest movie ever. We probably played it three times and honestly couldn’t understand why our dad was in such a hurry to return it.). For this reason, Catherine advised me not to pick a book I’m deeply nostalgic about, which eliminates the following books I cherished (and, incidentally, re-read) as a kid or else considered proof of my excellent taste and thus future literary stardom as a teenager. This eliminates A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Gone with the Wind, The Catcher in the Rye, The Chronicles of Narnia, Animal Farm, Anna Karenina, The Bell Jar, as well as anything written by L.M. Montgomery, Oscar Wilde, Ernest Hemingway, or Virginia Woolf.

Another reason I tend to go for ‘new’ reads versus re-reads is, I think, a bit of a lingering reaction against all the enforced ‘deep’ reading I had to do in university—I’m a fast reader and a semi-responsible student, so I’d read any given book I had to write a paper on at least twice, certain passages and over, marking them with sticky notes and so on—in the months following my last class, I distinctly remember not wanting to read anything of substance. I had to work my way back up to novels after binging on nothing but the fluffiest of magazines.  Even then, I remember feeling this huge sense of relief when I could just read a book once, enjoy it and move on without picking it apart or studying it to death.

For this reason, I’m not quite ready yet to go back to any classics or other titles from my university days, even ones I loved. In particular, this eliminates my absolute favorite book of all time: The Remains of the Day. I can’t remember which class I first read it for, but I know I read it at least five times, way more than what was necessary to write my paper on it. It’s just so exquisitely sad. In part, I’m afraid to go back to it in case it doesn’t live up to my memory of it. Then again, if it does live up, it will be an incredibly satisfying read. These are high stakes for someone who doesn’t handle disappointment/disillusionment all that well. These stakes also eliminate Open by Lisa Moore.

Lastly, I don’t tend to re-read because I am a highly impatient, restlessly curious person.  Even if I love the author’s style, and know that I will appreciate it all the more upon a second read, I can’t stand to re-read a book if I can still remember exactly what happens and/or how it ends. I just find myself thinking that I already know this one, and I get wistful for the ‘new’ reads I’m missing by spending time here in the known territory. Each ‘new’ read has the potential to become my next favorite book of all time whereas a familiar, even well-enjoyed, read does not, not without a significant effort on my part to develop a deep appreciation through re-reading which, as already noted, I’m too impatient to invest. So many books, so little time, etc. Thankfully, my memory is quite bad, so even if the book makes a strong impression on me, I only seem to retain a few key phrases/passages/the premise/a sense of the author’s style, and all but the strongest of these seem to fade somewhat over time.  So, this last reason only eliminates books I’ve read within the last year, as well as a few less recent but still highly memorable reads (The White Bone by Barbara Gowdy and Late Nights on Air by Elisabeth Hay) .

So, after taking a look at my shelves with all of these criteria in my mind, I’ve chosen All Times Have Been Modern by Elisabeth Harvor. I’m going to post about this experience and review this re-read sometime in the next few months.

In the meantime…I’d love to hear from my fellow chronic new-readers, if you exist, if only to know I’m not totally alone in this!

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