For someone who loved books from an early age, I sure did a lot of complaining about the ones we were assigned in school. Not because I found anything offensive about the books themselves, to be clear. It was the principle of the thing! I was not about to let something like an introduction to the American canon distract me from the books I really felt called to read: big enough to be a security blanket, obscure enough to discourage too much conversation about it.

Now just imagine my disquiet when one of the assigned books that really grabbed me in high school was also a big hit with my classmates: J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye, which just this month marked 75 years since its publication. In spite of myself, I found that I quickly cottoned to Holden Caulfield’s irreverence, rebelliousness and the charm of his outdated slang.

When I reopened the book recently, I expected a blast of nostalgia, perhaps even a deeper appreciation now that I’m two more decades older and a little less deluded about how cool I am. But again, the novel surprised me — this time, for the worse. During this readthrough, Holden looked nothing like the nobly doomed rebel I’d last encountered when I was 15. Not a single word had changed, of course, yet somehow while I was away he had shape-shifted into an insufferable narcissist, adrift in his own privilege and self-pity. I found that as I read, I grew increasingly impatient with the character, even a bit resentful — of him, and of my second readthrough — for complicating my sentimental memories of the book.

Of course, much like Heraclitus’ river, it’s impossible to step into the same book twice: The personal experiences and cultural shifts that separate one reading from the next inevitably produce different ways of understanding it. But it’s one thing to acknowledge this idea intellectually and another to feel it so viscerally. Was I mistaken the first time? Is my second read revealing, like a flu test, that I’ve joined the ranks of the phonies after all? Or should I just be grateful, the way I ought to feel for a childhood friend whom I have nothing in common with anymore?

Judging from last year’s reader survey, which polled NPR’s audience about their formative books from high school, I’m not alone in remembering The Catcher in the Rye with fondness. So, on the occasion of its diamond anniversary, I’ve got a question for you all: Has anyone else experienced such a jarring change of heart on rereading a book, for better or worse? And I’m not talking only about Salinger’s novel here; it could be any significant book from your past, including that old copy of The Odyssey you may be dusting off after catching the new blockbuster. What happens when we return to the texts that helped shape us, long after we put them down the first time? We’d love to hear your thoughts at bookoftheday@npr.org.