Reading the same book one hundred times in ten years is a whole lot of rereading. Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations must really ring Ryan Holliday’s bell. He justifies his choice at Medium.

As time slips by, the question of whether or not to reread a particular book yet again becomes more and more pressing. I once pronounced (many years ago) that I wouldn’t mind it if for the rest of my life I just reread William Faulkner’s novels over and over again. Is it because of the all-or-nothing-ness of that statement that I’ve hardly opened a book by Faulkner since then? Yes, yes: you love this book, but what reason does that give you to believe that out there there aren’t other books which you’ll love just as much? In a way, of course, what’s the point in indulging in that search? Say you did find what you considered the perfect book for you — would that condemn you to rereading it eternally? Why wouldn’t you have to think that an even more “perfect” one remained yet to be discovered? I think we don’t read books in order to enjoy reading them: we read books in order to enjoy having read them. Why wouldn’t we enjoy conquering new worlds?

I reread quite a lot of books, but it’s a rare event that I turn the last page of a book and immediately start at the beginning again. In fact I think it’s probably a unique occurrence. I last did it in 1997 when I read Henry Green’s Living twice on the trot. I’m not ruling out the possibility that I might have done something like this as a child, but I’d very much doubt it: playing touch-rugger on our ideally proportioned front lawn with my chums was much more of a priority. That I’d certainly have done over and over again.

Sorry Mr Holliday, I haven’t even read Meditations once. May be too dangerous to make the attempt now.

In the context of turning over stones with exciting new things under them, I once again recommend Neglected Books.