Returning to books we love

The two books that most enchant­ed me as a young read­er were, The Wind in the Wil­lows, by Ken­neth Gra­hame, and Trea­sure Island, by Robert Louis Steven­son. I adored these books when I first read them, and have esteemed them as much, if not more over the years I have reread them and reread them. Both British, both exquis­ite­ly writ­ten, I have no doubt that I could nev­er writ­ten The True Con­fes­sions of Char­lotte Doyle, with­out Stevenson’s book in me. Nor would I have writ­ten the Pop­py books with­out first read­ing about Mole and Rat, Bad­ger and Mr. Toad.

To reread them now, as I’ve just done yet again, is a deeply hum­bling expe­ri­ence. Oh, how I wish I could write as well. Half as well! One of the qual­i­ties of tru­ly great writ­ing is that it seems so effort­less, even as it is bril­liant, and insight­ful, sug­gest­ing that these writ­ers just sat down and spun out these mar­velous tales. Not so of course. I know that. I real­ly do. Or so I tell myself who strug­gle so.

It is good, I think, for writ­ers to return from time to time to those books we loved, book, which made us want to read and write. It’s like return­ing to ear­ly favorite teach­ers, those teach­ers we loved and remem­ber. One wants to say, “Hel­lo, do you remem­ber me? You made me love to read, and want to write. Thank you. I hope you like what I have done. Not as good as you, I know. But I keep try­ing. I real­ly do.”