Rereading Old Favorite Books
Do they hold up?
My husband and I are on a reading-aloud kick in the evenings lately. We’ve done this periodically in the past; we both enjoy ‘performative reading’ (which is a good thing, as we’re both writers who periodically get invited to do so), as well as being read to. He often reads my articles to me, after I’ve published them. It’s a good way to hear how a piece of writing is perceived and understood by others; the voice in your head can only convey so much.
(It will be kind of meta to hear him read this one, I realize. But I digress.)
What we’re doing these days is taking turns selecting old favorite books that the other hasn’t read, and reading those to each other. It’s been…interesting.
Years ago, when we were first dating, he read me Little, Big, by John Crowley. It was a wonderful book, I think; I mean, I’m pretty sure it was; well, to be honest, I feel as though I probably ought to read it again. It took us almost a year to get through it, because we lived in separate cities and only saw each other every few weeks. Also, he read to me in bed, which very quickly lulled me into a sweet and cozy sleep.
I don’t remember a whole lot about Little, Big.
Having learned from our missteps, we now read sitting up in our chairs in the living room, and we…
