I don't think I've ever been actively against the idea of rereading books. I just know I started doing it a few years ago (during covid)

how strange it feels to say "during covid"! i guess it is a metonymy? but also, i am so impressed — yet horrified — that we refer to what has been a catastrophic event, as a period of time. we were dying, we died, and now we think of it as "a couple of years in which hell happened but, in retrospect, it was not that big of a deal, everything is back to normal"

I started rereading books a few years ago and I've never looked back since.

Of course, my actual reading: the discovering of new books and new stories, suffers from my repeatedly going back to old stories and known-and-worn books.
I see this as the only disadvantage of such an habit but my reading has slowed down for multiple other reasons, this one being the least concerning.
Plus, it's not like I reread dozens of books every year! Just one or two, and sometimes not even in their entirety but only some paragraphs or chapters, and some quotes here and there.

Some people might argue that there is no point in rereading a book, it's always the same. I disagree and I'll do my best to explain why.

The book is the same, yes, but we are not.
We are constantly changing; the person we are while reading a book for the first time has ideas, knowledge, understanding and viewing of the world that are different from the ones possessed by the future self.
The book is the same but what we get out of it will be new every time, because we are new every time we come back to it.

It must be said that not every book is suitable, not every one deserves a reread. What makes one worthy, then? I believe the merit is not intrinsic to the book itself but it is attributed by us, the readers, and each is free to make their own choices; for example, I don't think thrillers are worth rereading because their value stands in the plot and its twists, and in the revelation of the killer; once read there's no point in going through that whole thing again, unless one completely forgets the entire plot — so, I guess it is fine to reread them, just not too soon.

I have a peculiar sickness, close to addiction, regarding Tolkien's work: I feel a strong desire to come back to it every now and then (I calculated this "now and then" and it corresponds to "once a year") and ONE OF the reasons why is that I crave the idea of getting lost in his world, being able to rewind the story and feel every emotion again: from the warmth, joy and sense of "slight peril ahead that won't stop my fooling around with my buddies" that I get in the first book of The Fellowship Of The Ring, to the dread, despair and hopelessness of the last stand, all swept away by an improbable victory against the Enemy, which leads to a release of tension and increase of sadness (for the way things turn out for Frodo, traumatized like a shocked soldier).

I stop here, fearing an entire essay on Middle-earth might pour in.

What I originally intended to say is: I go back to Tolkien to feel certain emotions all over again, and maybe my troubled mind finds extra comfort in already knowing what will come my way, no destabilizing emotional surprises.
For similar reasons I read A Christmas Carol every December, because in its being such a simple (yet powerful) story, it manages to convey the magic of Christmas and festivity in a wonderful way that lights up the cheeks of my inner child as if he was warmed by a cozy fire, sitting by the hearth near the green tree.
Dickens' story is to me a hundred pages of red and green (with a hint of black for the scariest moments) — hope these colors are enough to describe that whole atmosphere — and I want to get lost in that, to be surrounded, to drown in that feeling when December comes. The world is getting darker and I'm getting older, I'm starting to loose color in my heart. I need to be reminded about that red and green, I need to find the inner child to fully appreciate the holidays.

I thought this post would be a small essay, it is gradually turning into "Confessions of a lost reader".

These two examples do not match my initial statement of appreciating rereads because the book stays the same while the person changes; I go back to those two stories to hold on to some feelings I do not want to loose, it's almost the opposite. But these are special cases, too dear to my heart, and that reflects in their being recurring rereads.
I have also experienced that which I said before, though. It happened with Frankenstein, with The Secret History, with Beowulf and Il Garofano Rosso. I felt the need to go through these stories again and for each of them it felt like I was reading the book for the first time because of the amount of new feelings, understandings and thoughts I had.

I realised something truly important, and scary, with The Secret History.
A little context: I first read that book when I was 16, I was still in high school and I liked a girl who had a brother, only 1 year older, and they were both in my group of friends; I also had never drunk any alcohol.
I was completely changed by that book. It became my favourite. It changed me. I remember not being able to pick up any other book for a whole month because my mind was still set on those characters, on that story, and I could not let that go. It drained me and left me wishing for more.

by the way, i don't want to brag but i basically embraced the whole Dark Academia thing before it became a thing

I first read that book when I was 16, still in high school, with no idea of how life would look like in university. That book made me hope I could stroll around campus discussing about Homer and roman battle strategies while also deciding what to wear at the party the weekend night.
I read that book while having a crush (turned out to be love, btw) on a rich girl who had a brother, only 1 year older. I immediately associated them with Camilla and Charles (rich twins in the book).
I was reading that book, one winter evening, when I saw my father going into the kitchen to drink a sip of limoncello to warm up the body. The characters were almost always wasted or drugged: I decided to taste liqueur for the first time.

That book fit perfectly into my life at that specific point in time. It might have not if I had read it just a couple of months before or after.
Proving this is the fact that when I read it again, at 21, I felt something completely different: delusion. Life in university did not turn out to be what I had hoped, it was still great and I cherished it for many aspects but reading that book reminded me too much of what I had hoped; I fell out of love with that girl, I lost her company and her brother's; from that little sip of limoncello I had become one of the heaviest drinker in the group. Most of what touched me in that book now seemed to be against me, and yet! something else spoke to me, in a voice I could not hear when I was 16, about the struggle of fitting in while also trying to not get sucked up in group relationships, the struggle to find balance between friends and groups and one's self.

Hope it is clear where I am going with this.

A book — just like a movie, a painting, a person! — has an impact on our life that depends on the moment we meet it.
A movie is not our favourite just because it is good. It is our favourite because, when we first saw it, our life was in a place where that particular story resonated with us and felt good for deeper motives than the simple "I like the acting / cinematography / soundtrack...".

I stand by this epiphany, believing it to be true but... ugh! how I wish I had never thought of that! It comes with a fear: how many books have I not liked enough because I happened to read them at the wrong time? How many movies? (maybe I don't understand the hype around Frozen because I was already too old when I watched it)
And how many books and movies I won't ever be able to properly enjoy because I missed the right moment?

But the most frightening realization is: how many people have I mistreated, how many would have brought a greater value into my life, how many would have appreciated me better... if only I had met them at a different time!

I am paralyzed by this gloomy thought. Thank god it is December soon and I can go back to Scrooge and his Ghosts! I can meet them whenever, I can start from scratch at any moment in my life.