I worry about a lot of things: global warming, the dire state of Australian politics, my dwindling bank account, whether the Point Break sequel will live up to the original, but something that has started to creep up my list of concerns lately is the state of my memory and, in particular, my book memory. It’s book amnesia is what it is.
There are so many books that I have read and claim to love that have left me with little more than a faint, afterglow of enjoyment. Friends who know how much I love reading will ask me about a book that I have read and all I have to give them are a string of positive, but mostly unhelpful, adjectives.
I feel like the fact that I remember less than zero (speaking of books I apparently enjoyed but can’t remember a thing about) about a book somehow mars the validity of my enjoyment. Could I really have enjoyed it that much if I can’t even remember the name of the main character?
This affliction only seems to involve books for some reason. I mean, I remember every single episode of the OC like I watched them just yesterday (which I might have, don’t judge me), and I can quote Clueless start to finish, but ask me the name of the main character in Birdsong, a novel I tell people I loved, and I’ve got nothing.
Am I doing it wrong?
Categories: Book life