You don’t reread the same book. The book is the same but you are different and that difference is the whole point.
I reread The Stranger last month. First time was at eighteen — it made me feel seen. Edgy, sure, but seen. The indifference, the sun, the absurdity. I underlined everything. I was Meursault.
At twenty-three, the book reads differently. Meursault isn’t a hero anymore. He’s a case study. The indifference isn’t liberation, it’s pathology. The sun is still the sun but now I notice Marie more, notice the way the narrative flattens everyone around him into scenery for his non-feeling.
The book didn’t change. I did. That’s the argument for rereading: it’s the cheapest form of self-assessment. The delta between your two readings is the growth.
Read it again in five years. See what moves.