I started rereading books I had enjoyed in my youth after my son gave me a new translation of ‘War and Peace.’  I was delighted; I had read Tolstoy’s masterpiece when I was about 20 years old.

 At the time I was a University student and the Easter break lasted 4 weeks.  All of my friends went home, but I was a young overseas student with little money and could not afford to go anywhere.  I should have spent the time studying for my exams, but instead I bought a 2 volume edition of ‘War and Peace’ and lost myself in the complex tale of Russian aristocracy during the Napoleonic era. (Such is the folly of youth.)

My son’s gift to me coincided with my retirement from paid employment; it was probably the first time I could have found time to reread this exceptionally long book.

I found the narrative as compelling as I had all those years ago, but what surprised me was the depth of emotion expressed throughout the book.  I wondered what I could have understood when I was a green 20-year-old with so little experience.

There has recently been debate in the English educational press as to whether children’s literature should be labelled with suggested age groups.  Rereading ‘War and Peace’ made me wonder whether all literature should be so labelled. If so, I would label ‘War and Peace’ as most suitable for the over 50s.

The experience of rereading an old favourite and finding it so much better than my recollections made me want to try seeking out some other books from my youth.  (I reckon my youth ended when I was about 27.)

I cannot remember learning to read and was a constant reader from as far back as I can remember.

I have already reread most of my favourite childhood books by way of reading them to my own children.  The only real surprise there was that Barbar the Elephant was available in English.  My mother led me to believe that the Barbar stories were only available in French. (I am sure this was done with the best of intentions.)

I started reading books from the ‘adult’ section of the public library when I was about 12 or 13.  I was a voracious reader until I reached a stage where I knew I had to concentrate on passing school exams.  This hiatus lasted for about 3 years.  Somehow I managed to get through University with a serious reading habit.

When I was 14 I read Truman Capote’s ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’.  I realised that the heroine was deeply immoral, but was envious of the exciting life described.  Just after I read it, I started a new year at school.  During the first week of school my English teacher gave us all index cards and asked us to write down our name and the title and author of the book we had read most recently.

I duly wrote down ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’ by Truman Capote.  I still maintain I did so in all innocence, as my parents never practised any form of censorship.

When we had all written on our cards the teacher collected them and flicked through them as he explained that over the next few lessons he would ask us to say a few words about our book.  I can still remember the look on his face when his eye fell on my card.  With a shocked and angry glare he called out my name and asked, “Why did you choose this book?”

I know I was surprised to be called first and puzzled as to why he was so angry.  I began by saying something bland to the effect that I had chosen it because I liked it.  He continued to look angry and question me about why I had chosen that book.  As it dawned on me that he thought I had chosen that book to make mischief, my perverse streak came to the fore.  When he asked yet again, “But what did you like about the book?”  I replied “It was the sex.”

The door to the classroom was swiftly opened, a chair put into the corridor and I was ordered to sit there in silence until the end of the lesson.

I did not rejoin the class for the rest of the year.  Instead I was set a correspondence course; my parents were told that the school had decided I would derive more benefit from independent study at a higher level.  There was never any discussion of the matter at home.

The book I was given to study alone was ‘Billy Budd’ by Herman Melville.  My only memory is of overwhelming boredom.  I suspect that is unfair and that I should try reading it again.

Last year I did reread ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’.  It was amazed to find that it is very short – more like an extended short story than a novel.  I found it quite a sad story, with beautifully crafted writing.  The film seems to have eclipsed the novel, a huge injustice as Truman Capote’s work is much deeper and more complex.  I can see that there are issues with the morality of the novel, and guess that the film makers had to turn it into a saccharine corruption of the original to get a studio to take on the project.

Back in my school days, I was readmitted to English class for the following academic year, but with another teacher.  This one asked me to stay back after school for a meeting with other ‘advanced’ pupils.  She was establishing an optional reading group so that we could read a more difficult book and discuss it in a group.

She explained that she had considered starting with J.D. Salinger’s ‘Catcher in the Rye’ but had decided against it as it might upset some parents.  Needless to say, we all read that book as soon as we could lay hands on it.

I reread ‘Catcher in the Rye’ a few months ago, and my overarching view is that it is immensely clever.  The author grabs the reader’s attention from the opening paragraph by writing in the first person as a troubled young man who perceives himself to be sophisticated.

It occurs to me that the major difference between my youthful self and myself of today is that I read with one eye on the writer’s craft.  I have become interesting in writing as an art form; in my youth I was only interested in reading a story. 

I now read more slowly because I want to understand how the writer has told the story.  If the tale is so compelling that I turn pages quickly, I will later go back to try to pick apart the technique.

I would not say that I enjoy reading more or less than I did in my youth, only that I enjoy it in a different way.