I was talking to a friend recently about re-reading favorite authors. He said it was often disappointing, citing The Man Who Loved Children by Christina Stead and The Deptford Trilogy by Robertson Davies as books that he had loved on first read but couldn’t get into the second time around.
I’m not much into re-reading books. I always want to move on to something else, some other author, or another book by the same author. I read the collected stories of John Cheever shortly after it came out and loved them. It’s a massive collection, though, and I stopped about two thirds of the way through. Ten or twenty years later, I picked up another copy. I had forgotten about reading them before until I was well into the volume and started having a sense of déjà vu. I enjoyed them the second time around as much as the first but damned if I didn’t stop again two thirds of the way through, maybe at the exact same spot. And now I can’t remember a single story off the top of my head.
This anecdote says more about my shabby memory than it does about Cheever. I think he’ll hold up real well to re-reading. I hope you enjoy it as much the second time around as you did the first.
I think there’s yet another copy of the collection sitting in my basement. One of these days, maybe I’ll go back for thirds.