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Well, apparently there’s something to be said about reading books in different phases of life. According to Laura, Catcher in the Rye is extremely poignant if you read it at the right stage. (I didn’t read it until after college and found it rambling and ridiculous.) I didn’t read Wuthering Heights until I was well along in my English major, and I adored it, while I know many who read it in high school found it abysmal.
I don’t think I had actually read The Saving Graces since early on in our marriage. The summer before we got married, my daddy’s best friend died from liver cancer at age 50 … and looking back, I think perhaps that affected my reading of the book more than anything.
At 29, I’ve struggled with infertility. I am married with two kids. I’ve held a job, I’ve wanted to be a writer, I’ve gone through some deep depressions. I might have too much in common with some of the characters now.
I was eager to reread my battered copy after I wrote about it this October. But in those water-stained and creased pages I found none of that original emotion. I shed no tears. I felt no real pull to the characters.
Too far away from a cancer experience? Too long without intimate women friendships? I don’t know.
I hate to recant my statements but in this case … I wouldn’t want anyone to buy the book, read it, and think I was nuts. Compared to most else of what I recommend to you, it’s just not my cup of tea anymore.
I think reading tastes change … and I think that is OK.
Are there any books that have led you to say, “What was I thinking?”