My earliest reading memory takes me back to being five years old, sitting in my grandfather's cozy study. He would read to me from his French-translated copy of Rudyard Kipling's The Jungle Book. I was so familiar with the stories that I could correct him word-for-word if he tried to change something.
Growing up, my favorite book was Ray Bradbury's Something Wicked This Way Comes. It was a treasure for an imaginative and lonely child like me. The book was filled with magical elements: a magical carousel, monsters, and the charming scent of autumn leaves lying in the sun. The language was as crisp and sweet as an October apple, awakening in me a deep passion for words and the magic they could bring out. I've reread it regularly and it never fails to satisfy me.
In my adult years, I revisited Emily Brontë's Wuthering Heights. When I first read it at 16, I perceived it as a love story. However, rereading it as an adult, I was struck by how different it seemed to me, and how much of the humour I'd missed. Now I love its poetry. And the love story not only exists between the characters but between Brontë and the North York Moors.
James Joyce's Ulysses was a book I came back to after 40 years. Initially, at 15, I found it ugly, depressing, and dull, and I hated it. It took me four decades to return to it, and this time, I found myself understanding and beginning to appreciate it. I could see the details, the mythic parallels, the references to different writing styles, and the groundbreaking technique.
Though some exceptional books can develop and grow alongside us, others fall by the wayside. I've revisited so many childhood favourites only to find the magic gone, but I'm usually happy to leave the book behind. I've taken from it what I need.
