On rereading in winter

Every January, when the harmattan haze sits on the city and every shelf wears a film of dust, I reread the same three novels. I will not tell you which ones, because the point is not the books. The point is the returning.

There is a particular pleasure in reading a book whose ending you know. The suspense goes, and what replaces it is attention. You notice the weather in chapter two that you rushed past the first time. You notice who is in the room when the important thing is said, and who has just left it.

I used to feel guilty about it, with so many new books stacked by the bed. I do not any more. Rereading is how a writer learns, and how a reader finds out who they have become since the last time. The book stays the same. You do not.

So: three novels, a lamp, a wrapper over my knees and the fan ticking. If you are doing the same this month, I would love to know which books you go back to. Write and tell me; I answer every letter, eventually.