Rereading a book after a decade or more can be an exciting undertaking. But it also can be a disappointment.
I just finished reading “The Talisman” by Stephen King and Peter Straub for the first time since it came out in the mid-1980s. I remember loving the book back then, and picked it back up with a combination of enthusiasm and trepidation. Suppose my memories were faulty and it wasn’t as good as I remembered? That’s happened with other books I’ve reread at one time or another.
Good news. I enjoyed it just as much as last time, perhaps more. Except for the overarching plot, I didn’t remember one single thing about it while reading it this time. So my memories were faulty, just in a good way.
I’m in the process of going back to books that I’ve read in the past, even ones that I only sort of liked. In some cases, I’ve adjusted my views on the book.
I’ve read Dickens’ “Great Expectations” about three times, and each time I find something new in it. But nothing matches the joy I experienced the first time I read it in high school.