I read "The Pilgrim's Progress" in fifth grade, and did not process it as a Christian allegory. I thought it was a really dark Alice in Wonderland rip-off. I read the entire Lord of the Rings series (including the hobbit) in sixth grade, and thus, the politics and power play were lost on me, zipping over my head as I read distracted by all the awesome swordfights and dwarves and dragons.
Thus, a few weeks ago, as I was deciding on which of my books to give away and which ones to keep, I came across my copy of F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby. I remember reading it in high school as one of those books that I would read in between the books I had to read. I knew it was an old favorite of mine, and that for a while, I fancied myself the titular character, but I could not exactly remember how or why. So, I decided to reread it.
Rereading an old favorite after you've grown some years is like reading it for the first time. You've acquired new learnings since then, you've read other stories, you've seen more of the world than before. As I reread Gatsby, I realized I was discovering layers of meanings in the story that I have previously missed. I could relate to Gatsby more, I could understand where he was coming from. I was getting so much more from reading it the second time around.
I love The Great Gatsby. Jay Gatsby is easiest one of my favorite literary heroes. He's a social climbing romantic who had everything but the girl. It adds intrigue to his character that he acquired his wealth after being "the companion" of a wealthy old man who lived in a yacht, and that he holds court in swank restaurants with money lenders of dubious character. Of all his swag and glam, Jay Gatsby is a little boy in the presence of Daisy, the woman that has taken possession of his heart.
Thus, we fall in love with our old loves, in our reintroduction, in our replayed enchantment, because we see with eyes that have seen the world, and discover all new ways to appreciate the beauty that has captivated us in our naivete.
Perhaps, rereading books and revisiting old loves also have a common disadvantage: doing either doesn't change the ending. But what's so wrong with that? Sometimes, we reread stories knowing how they'll end-- in heartbreak, in objects thrown in the air to shatter against walls, in gunfights and gore. But that doesn't make rereading them less enjoyable. In fact, it is in this bittersweet knowledge that makes the experience richer, fuller. Because we know it wouldn't end happily ever after, we turn each page delicately, savoring the irony of each happy paragraph, each hopeful scene, each time the story would seem to go on a high note, knowing it would all eventually crash.
That's why we couldn't stop opening that closed book, could we?
