Rereading - The Art of Rediscovery

Saturday evening. My mum and I were curling up on the couch. The TV was on, playing a documentary about an endangered species of snake that apparently had horns (horny snakes?!). I absentmindedly glanced at the screen over the top of my half-read book while my mum stared at the screen intently, mesmerised by the creatures’ intricate scales. During the commercial break, my mum squinted as she tilted her head to read the barely-eligible title of my book. “Jane Eyre? Haven’t you remembered that book by heart already?”. The question caught me off guard. It lingered in the air as I contemplated its presence, as I felt how it slowly reached its invisible tentacles into my jumbled mind. Haven’t I read this book a million times? Why bother revisiting stories when you’ve already known where the loose ends would lead to? Why bother indulging in familiarity when there are a plethora of wondrous journeys awaiting to be embarked on?

Those appear to be perfectly sound arguments, but…

There is a strange sense of comfort and nostalgia in immersing in familiar stories. It’s like visiting an old friend without the crippling fear that time has ruthlessly changed them (and your relationship) beyond recognition (or that they have discovered some cringy photos of you on Facebook and now no longer wish to be associated with you). Books don’t change. The letters don’t just magically rearrange themselves or morph into some sort of gargantuan creature over time. In this maddening world, it’s reassuring to know that every letter, every punctuation, and every word will always remain unscathed. Although the books don’t change, you do and so does your interpretation of them. For me, one of the most beautiful facets of reading is that it is a deeply personal process - how you understand a text, to some extent, reflects your current worldview and mental state. Thus, when you reread a book, you get the chance to revisit familiar narratives and characters with new perspectives. There is a myriad of books that I didn’t enjoy as a teenager but gradually learned to appreciate as I become older. Plus, for somebody who can be easily carried away with plot advancement, rereading is a perfect way to truly appreciate the beauty of language. Actually, it wasn’t until my second or third read of Jane Eyre that I recognized the foreshadowing, the symbolism, along with many other literary elements nested beneath the surface.

My mum cleared her throat, yanking me out of my trance. “But I haven’t read this book for the 19th time,” I blurted out without much thought. The answer poured out smoothly like butter on warm toast. “Yah, tell me if you discover something new, okay?” she shrugged and turned her attention back to the documentary. And just like that, we settled back into our peaceful silence.