Earlier this year I picked up an old copy of Melville's Moby Dick that had been sitting on the shelf collecting dust and decided to give it another shot. I had first read it in college. Correction: I was assigned to read it in college, which I did very indifferently, finding the book at the time meadering and boring and who decides what makes a classic anyway?
So expectations were low, but once I started reading it this year, I couldn't put it down. It was amazing, right from the very first paragraph:
Call me Ishmael. Some years ago--never mind how long precisely --having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off--then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.
So despite the occasional archaic language and nearly half of the book devoted to whale lore (which I loved), I'd had a complete turn around in my view of the book. And I plan to re-read it again when I get the chance.
So my question is, have you ever re-read a book that you either dismissed or hated years before but now discover something wonderful that, for whatever reason, seemed to have eluded you at first?
So expectations were low, but once I started reading it this year, I couldn't put it down. It was amazing, right from the very first paragraph:
Call me Ishmael. Some years ago--never mind how long precisely --having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off--then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.
So despite the occasional archaic language and nearly half of the book devoted to whale lore (which I loved), I'd had a complete turn around in my view of the book. And I plan to re-read it again when I get the chance.
So my question is, have you ever re-read a book that you either dismissed or hated years before but now discover something wonderful that, for whatever reason, seemed to have eluded you at first?
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