How many times can you read the same novel?

“How many times can you read the same novel?” he asked. She smiled. They walked along silently for a few moments, and then she answered, “D’you know? I love the feeling of a bookshop. Always have. Each time I walk into one, it’s as if I’ve entered a wonderland. As I walk slowly past the shelves, I see volumes after volumes begging me to pick them out, leaf through them, read about the authors who spent months and years on them, linger there a bit. I love the sheer number of books, the variety of themes they deal with, the different cover designs, the different smells. And then I see books I’ve read: they have different faces, but the lines they carry are so familiar, so well loved.” She paused to let a cat amble across the road. He slipped his fingers through hers. She continued, “And the most wonderful thing about each book you pick up, is that you never know from its cover or from the recommendations it carries or from the many awards it’s received, whether you will like it. The first time I read a book, I’m in a tearing hurry. I can’t wait to turn the page, can’t wait to see what happens next, how the plot develops: I read the book because it pulls me in.” He glanced at her profile, and smiled at the lost memory of when he’d seen her first. “If I like the book enough, I invariably return to it. The second reading is slower: I look up all the difficult words I’d skipped in my first brush, I read the few passages I’d skipped. By the end of the second reading, the book is etched in my memory. I know the plot, I know the characters: I read the book because I know I’ve cheated in the first reading.” He hadn’t guessed that she had known about his doubts. She had known, and she hadn’t said a word. “The third time I read the book, it’s as if I’m reading the author’s original draft. I think about the way the story develops, the way the characters respond. I begin to see a bit of myself in one of the characters, a bit of my world in parts of the plot. I read the book because I know that I haven’t really understood it.” She smiled up at him. “The next time I pick it up, I linger at phrases I love, re-read lines slowly, trying to grasp their beauty. I write down the few lines I love in that little notebook I have. I marvel at the author’s sheer genius in observing life, and in understanding it and in converting this understanding into words. I read the book because I’ve finally learned how to enjoy it.” She smelt of rain, he thought. Of rain. “The book lies on my shelf for many days. I come back to it after a long time. It’s got a bit of dust on it. The cover is creased, frayed at the edges. When I open the book, I’m greeted by yellow pages with furling edges. I smell the book. Don’t old books smell lovely? I open a page at random, and I know what to expect. Once in a while, I come across bits I had underlined in an unsure, unsteady hand. I smile when I remember my first tryst with the book: the guilty snatches between frantic studying for exams, late nights when I simply couldn’t let go. I smile when I remember my fascination. I come across an old bookmark, still patiently marking a page which I’d forgotten to open. I come across a wildflower I had firmly pressed between the pages. The flower has a fragile beauty now. The colours are all faded and I’ve to handle it ever so carefully. But it still preserves the memory of the day you’d given it to me. I read the book because I love it.” It was time to turn back. They hadn’t reached anywhere as usual. “How many times can I read the same novel? You tell me!” she said.