Notes on Rereading

I reread the same novel for the third time this winter. Each time I find a different book.

The first time I read it I was twenty-three. The ending wrecked me. I thought it was about loss.

The second time I was thirty. I thought it was about stubbornness — the way people cling to a version of themselves past its usefulness.

This time I am not sure what it is about. I am still in the middle. It seems to be about something smaller and harder to name. A kind of loyalty that doesn't have a clear object.

I think this is what people mean when they say a book rewards rereading, but that phrase makes it sound like the book is doing you a favor. It is more that you bring different eyes and find a different room. The book sits still. You are the one who moved.