As a general rule, I don’t like nostalgia. It’s nice for a couple of seconds, but by its very nature, that warm and fuzzy feeling nostalgia gives you is misleading. You hear some goofy radio song from the 80s and think, “Wow, this reminds me of all the good times I had as a wee lad,” completely forgetting that at the exact moment of the song’s release you weighed all of 70 pounds, had ridiculous illusions of being a professional dancer (the kind on Solid Gold), and insisted on playing for the girls’ team at recess. You really liked hanging out with the popular kid who just happened to live next door, and you made every effort to be stationed in his bedroom when his older, college-bound brother stepped out of the shower. Among your best friends, you could count more than a couple of heavyset girls; you identified with them somehow, but you couldn’t quite put your finger what it was about them that made you feel so comfortable (though now you realize that it’s just because neither of you could get inside any of the cute boys’ pants). In short, you were pretty mixed up, and the other kids looked at you as though you might be Typhoid Mary, but they weren’t quite sure. So while “Favourite Shirts” is undoubtedly one of the best songs ever, it’s probably going a little far to say that you and your friends had great times while listening to it. The best times you had to that song were in your bedroom, choreographing a solo routine that would never, ever be performed for the general public.
I do, however, occasionally reread old books I enjoyed as a kid. More often than not, I wish I hadn’t. The plots are almost always ludicrously formulaic, the characters are as thin as the roast beef on a well-made po-boy, and the moral lesson (there’s inevitably a moral lesson) is so painfully obvious and simplistic it could and does fit on the back of a sugar packet. I get a little frustrated and depressed: man, was I taken in.
I’m happy to say, though, that’s not quite the case with my current summer reading: A Wrinkle in Time. Not to say the book’s perfect: the characters can sometimes get a little silly, and although it’s set in America, the kids all speak like children in early twentieth century British novels, with “Drat!” and “Rather!” and “I say!” And the theme is pretty much good vs. evil, black vs. white. Still, it’s held up reasonably well since I read it over 20 years ago–almost as well as The Chronicles of Narnia, which I must sheepishly admit I still skim from time to time…. (Ouch, that was painful.)
Side note: I think part of my hatred for nostalgia comes from my hatred for yuppies. They’ve just gotten old enough to want to be young again, and you can’t walk two blocks in the business district at 5:00 without hearing “Louie, Louie” (their version of “Rio”) blaring from at least five red convertibles. If this particular sensation (i.e. a general aversion to yuppies) is unfamiliar to you, might I suggest you take a temporary post as waiter in a steakhouse and ask to be put on the lunch shift. See how long you last before you start accidentally spilling cosmopolitans (which, when combined with cigars, are to yuppies as eucalyptus is to the koala) down the backs of their Brooks Brothers suits.
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