Dune

Every 18 months or so, I re-read the Dune series of books by Frank Herbert. I've been doing this since I picked up the 'God Emperor of Dune' in Frenchtown High School, Montana. Frenchtown was the school district, I was living in Missoula at the time. There's something cleansing about these books, a way to center and reorient my thinking.
The David Lynch's version of Dune always provides the faces in my imagination. Even though, intellectually, I know that most of those faces must be wrong. Paul was much younger than Kyle MacLachlan, Feyd Rautha had curly black hair, not Sting's blond locks. Patrick Stewart is too pretty for Gurney Halleck, but still he stands in my inner theater, reciting Gurney's lines as I read.
If you have never actually picked up these books, you are missing something really beautiful. The next time you are in a book store, pick up the last book "Dune: Chapterhouse" and flip to the end. At least in my edition (and I hope in all editions) the last 3 pages contain a letter where Frank Herbert talks about his life with his recently deceased wife. A beautiful and moving letter that even now, after reading and absorbing these writings for 17 years, brings a tear to my eye.
Whenever I need to be reminded of the power of language (which happens every 18 months or so) I read these books and am fully reminded.