Read It Again?

 

Throughout my life, I have read some books more than once—sometimes far more than once.

In childhood, of course, I read my favorites over and over again—or had them read to me: The 500 Hats of Batholomew Cubbins, Make Way for Ducklings, Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel.

Later in boyhood, I read many Westerns over and over, especially those about the warriors of the Alamo—Crockett and Bowie. I loved Quentin Reynolds’ Custer’s Last Stand, and a special favorite was The Golden Summer by Daniel Nathan.

In high school I didn’t read all that much—just the assigned books (and not always those!). I was preparing for a career in professional sports. Ha!

At Hiram College, though, I returned to my reading ways, and in grad school (Kent State) I read some books again—ones that I’d read back in college (Hiram had some wonderful professors).

And after that—when I became an English teacher—I was off on a rest-of-my-life journey through Book World. Some books I read over and over (books which I taught—The Call of the Wild, The Taming of the Shrew, Much Ado About Nothing, Hamlet, The Great Gatsby, and so on).

In college, inspired by my great prof Abe C. Ravitz, I’d also begun the custom of reading a writer’s complete works—a custom I still practice.

Some of the readers I respect the most will often reread books over the years. I do this only rarely—among them The Lord of the Rings, Little Big Man, and some others.

But for the most part I don’t do that very often. A number of years ago I realized that I was never going to be able to read all the books I want to read, not all the books of those writers I admire the most. And so I’ve pretty much quit rereading.

I know the day will come—and I fear it’s not far away—that I won’t be able to read anymore. At all.

And that will be a most dreary day. Like a death. Like a drear death of a dear one whose passing fractures what’s left of my life—or like a permanent eclipse of the sun.