Last night, while reading through old journals, I remembered a short story that had a lasting impression on me. It was called The Paper Menagerie, and reading it years ago moved me in some indescribable way. However when I tried to recall the plot, I realised I had forgotten – there were themes of grief and regret, that much I retained – but the details evaded me. So I pulled open my copy, and began to read.

There is something magical about revisiting a previously adored book. You have a lingering impression of the work which provides a certain structure, but the declining of memory leaves you open to new impressions. These new discoveries can entirely delight and transform the story you once thought you knew.

My second reading of The Paper Menagerie hit harder than the first. The story hooked me in from line one, and themes I hadn’t realised previously – of maternal sacrifice, and arrogant youth – stuck out. The book was short, and the second read took no longer than 10 minutes, but by the end, I was surprised to find myself in tears. This book, I realised, hit a nerve I previously didn’t have. I was a completely different reader this time, and this book transformed itself correspondingly. All great works do this, I think. They change to the form of the beholder.

I thought, all those years ago, I had learnt all there was from this short story. Time has a way of humbling.