The other day I had a minor revelation:
If I want to rekindle my love for literature, I have to begin rereading the writers who have already proven to me that their opus is worth reading.
I have to retrace the footfalls that I’ve followed and see what new places they take me.
I have to relearn the chapters of my past.
Enough of these trips to my local bookseller in search of new releases and new writers.
Enough of this asking other avid readers for suggestions.
Enough of this digesting contemporary reviews and wondering if Writer A will be the next wordsmith to take me on a journey, or if Writer B is the more skillful.
I know what I like to read. I’ve read enough books by now to know that there are certain pieces of prose that keep me nearby until the end and others that let me drift away, sometimes forever.
If I want to remain an ardent lover of literature, I have to either reopen the pages that made me love literature in the first place, or venture out to new pages composed by the same trusty hands.
These are my choices.