I wonder if re-reading A Wrinkle in Time would be a disappointment.
I saw my high school friend Erin over Christmas in Buffalo. We ran into each other in a bookstore and later met for coffee. Kindred-ly — We had each planned to meet with our respective bookish leaders: her yearbook advisor, my journalism advisor. And somehow we started talking about favorite books and favorite authors. We got misty-eyed over Madeleine L’Engle and Erin said she’d gone to the memorial service in New York. It made me want to dive back into the stratosphere with Meg and Calvin and Charles Wallace and learn again what a tesseract is. But I’ve heard that the re-reading lifts the veil of wonder and hurts the memories crystallized through a child’s eyes.
Maybe this. I’m not going to re-read A Wrinkle in Time or Ender’s Game or The Chronicles of Narnia until I am reading them to someone else.