On rereading

I reread The Brothers Karamazov this year for the third time. I was surprised, again, by how different it was from what I remembered — and also by how much more of it I understood.

There’s something strange about this. The book hasn’t changed. I have. The words are identical. But they land differently now.

I think this is what people mean when they say certain books repay rereading. Not that they contain hidden content that only reveals itself gradually, like a puzzle. But that you bring more of yourself to them each time. The parts that felt opaque at 22 suddenly have referents in your own experience. You’ve felt something adjacent; the words find the feeling.

The question is whether you give them the chance. Rereading feels indulgent in a culture that quantifies books consumed. There’s always something new. But the thing the new cannot give you is the depth that comes only from return.