By Rachel Simon, Editor in Chief, Emerson College
As I write this, I am four chapters into To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee’s Pulitzer Prize-winning 1960 novel about racism in the South. It’s not the first time I’ve read the book – that was way back in the summer before seventh grade, when it was assigned as homework for English class. It’s not the second time, or the third, or even the fourth or fifth. If I’ve remembered correctly, this should be my eighth time re-reading To Kill a Mockingbird. For me, this isn’t anything unusual. I’ve re-read most of my favorite books at least half a dozen times each. Some of my most beloved novels have probably been read a good ten times each, and have the faded covers and dog-eared pages to show for it. There’s something wonderful about picking up a book and instantly slipping back into a familiar world, reading without worry of plot or suspense. Before I even turn to the first page, I already know that Boo Radley will save Scout, Charlie will get the Chocolate Factory, and Harry will defeat Voldemort, time and time again.
I’ve always been a reader. My parents instilled a love of books in me long ago, and it hasn’t lessened over the years – if anything, it’s grown. At home, my shelves are in a constant state of overflowing disarray; here, at school, I have the “problem” of having a Boston Public Library card but a severe lack of space in my dorm room. Growing up, with a mom on the library board and a family friend at Scholastic, I was encouraged to read every book I wanted. I spent weekends with Judy Blume and S.E. Hinton, and school day afternoons with Lois Lowry and Ann Brasheres, countless authors whose works guided me through childhood and adolescence. Of course, as I’ve grown older, my reading tastes have changed, and I’m now more likely to pick up the latest Joan Didion memoir than The Hunger Games. Still, lately, I’ve found that when I’m choosing a novel to re-read, it’s usually one of the “classics” – my beloved young adult novels (YA).
Why is this? There are plenty of contemporary “grown-up” novels I’ve come to read and love. Just recently, I finished Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl, and I plan to pick up George Saunders’ Tenth of December the next time I’m at a Barnes & Noble. Still, as much as I enjoy reading these books, I rarely feel the urge to re-read them. It’s not because the plots aren’t strong or the characters memorable. I may talk about a new novel I’ve read for days afterwards, marveling over the author’s ability to create suspense or use pop culture references wisely. Yet after a short while, that’s it – I’m done. It seems that when I read literary fiction, it often follows the rule of “out of sight, out of mind,” unlike my YA books, which I’m still re-reading years after I first discovered them.
The novels I read as a child, pre-teen, and teen have stuck with me for so long because they aren’t just books – they’re memories. When I think of the Harry Potter series, I think of reading the third book aloud with my farther, trading off chapters as we stumbled towards its heart-stopping conclusion. When I see The Cather in the Rye, I remember my ninth grade English class, its twenty members split into two teams arguing over whether Holden Caulfield was just much of a “phony” as the adults he hated. The Giver evokes a rainy summer at Lake George, the endless days stuck indoors passed by the discovery of Lois Lowry’s wrenching story; When I grab Laurie Halse Anderson’s Speak out from under my bed, I realize I am holding the first novel that made me realize I wanted to be a writer.
All of these books evoke something. For some, it’s memories of specific moments over the years, times of bonding with parents or talking with friends. For others, though, it’s not one moment in particular, but just a general nostalgia for life in the early 2000s. YA novels remind me of training bras and first crushes, school dances and middle school cliques. Every detail from these awkward years is painfully, hilariously documented, and with every chapter, I am transported back to an era of my life I’ll (thankfully) never revisit. When I re-read these books, I am happily welcomed by the familiar.
As much as I love literary fiction, it’s just not the same. Novels that are set in the years of my adolescence capture those years with references to Hey Arnold and N*Sync, but they don’t resonate with me as strongly as YA books because I’m reading them for the first time as an adult. And so, I keep my bookshelves full and my desk drawers stuffed. I bring my all-time favorites to college with me so that when the urge to re-read comes along, I have an option always ready. Maybe one day I’ll run out of books to revisit, or I’ll just simply get bored of reading the same words over and over. For now, though, I have no plans to leave YA behind. I have To Kill a Mockingbird to finish, and after that, an old, tattered, fiercely loved Sarah Dessen novel begging to be read.
This article was originally published in the Westmore News, 2012.
As I write this, I am four chapters into To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee’s Pulitzer Prize-winning 1960 novel about racism in the South. It’s not the first time I’ve read the book – that was way back in the summer before seventh grade, when it was assigned as homework for English class. It’s not the second time, or the third, or even the fourth or fifth. If I’ve remembered correctly, this should be my eighth time re-reading To Kill a Mockingbird. For me, this isn’t anything unusual. I’ve re-read most of my favorite books at least half a dozen times each. Some of my most beloved novels have probably been read a good ten times each, and have the faded covers and dog-eared pages to show for it. There’s something wonderful about picking up a book and instantly slipping back into a familiar world, reading without worry of plot or suspense. Before I even turn to the first page, I already know that Boo Radley will save Scout, Charlie will get the Chocolate Factory, and Harry will defeat Voldemort, time and time again.
I’ve always been a reader. My parents instilled a love of books in me long ago, and it hasn’t lessened over the years – if anything, it’s grown. At home, my shelves are in a constant state of overflowing disarray; here, at school, I have the “problem” of having a Boston Public Library card but a severe lack of space in my dorm room. Growing up, with a mom on the library board and a family friend at Scholastic, I was encouraged to read every book I wanted. I spent weekends with Judy Blume and S.E. Hinton, and school day afternoons with Lois Lowry and Ann Brasheres, countless authors whose works guided me through childhood and adolescence. Of course, as I’ve grown older, my reading tastes have changed, and I’m now more likely to pick up the latest Joan Didion memoir than The Hunger Games. Still, lately, I’ve found that when I’m choosing a novel to re-read, it’s usually one of the “classics” – my beloved young adult novels (YA).
Why is this? There are plenty of contemporary “grown-up” novels I’ve come to read and love. Just recently, I finished Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl, and I plan to pick up George Saunders’ Tenth of December the next time I’m at a Barnes & Noble. Still, as much as I enjoy reading these books, I rarely feel the urge to re-read them. It’s not because the plots aren’t strong or the characters memorable. I may talk about a new novel I’ve read for days afterwards, marveling over the author’s ability to create suspense or use pop culture references wisely. Yet after a short while, that’s it – I’m done. It seems that when I read literary fiction, it often follows the rule of “out of sight, out of mind,” unlike my YA books, which I’m still re-reading years after I first discovered them.
The novels I read as a child, pre-teen, and teen have stuck with me for so long because they aren’t just books – they’re memories. When I think of the Harry Potter series, I think of reading the third book aloud with my farther, trading off chapters as we stumbled towards its heart-stopping conclusion. When I see The Cather in the Rye, I remember my ninth grade English class, its twenty members split into two teams arguing over whether Holden Caulfield was just much of a “phony” as the adults he hated. The Giver evokes a rainy summer at Lake George, the endless days stuck indoors passed by the discovery of Lois Lowry’s wrenching story; When I grab Laurie Halse Anderson’s Speak out from under my bed, I realize I am holding the first novel that made me realize I wanted to be a writer.
All of these books evoke something. For some, it’s memories of specific moments over the years, times of bonding with parents or talking with friends. For others, though, it’s not one moment in particular, but just a general nostalgia for life in the early 2000s. YA novels remind me of training bras and first crushes, school dances and middle school cliques. Every detail from these awkward years is painfully, hilariously documented, and with every chapter, I am transported back to an era of my life I’ll (thankfully) never revisit. When I re-read these books, I am happily welcomed by the familiar.
As much as I love literary fiction, it’s just not the same. Novels that are set in the years of my adolescence capture those years with references to Hey Arnold and N*Sync, but they don’t resonate with me as strongly as YA books because I’m reading them for the first time as an adult. And so, I keep my bookshelves full and my desk drawers stuffed. I bring my all-time favorites to college with me so that when the urge to re-read comes along, I have an option always ready. Maybe one day I’ll run out of books to revisit, or I’ll just simply get bored of reading the same words over and over. For now, though, I have no plans to leave YA behind. I have To Kill a Mockingbird to finish, and after that, an old, tattered, fiercely loved Sarah Dessen novel begging to be read.
This article was originally published in the Westmore News, 2012.