Conversation at the park.
S: Did you do any reading over the summer?
Me: Yes, loads.
[My mind goes completely blank and I can't remember the titles or authors of any of the many books I've read over the past couple of months. All I can remember is the title of a book I vaguely remember reading last year]
Me: I read "Le Secret" by that author, you know...... it's the story of a Jewish boy growing up during the war, and there's a secret in his past.
[I realise that I can't remember a single thing about the plot or the characters in "Le Secret"].
Me: Maybe the author's name was Levy. Not Marc Levy but another Levy.
S: Maybe.
Silence.
S. returns to reading the latest Le Clézio.
The book I was grasping for is actually entitled "Un Secret" and it was written by Philippe Grimbert. I thoroughly recommend it but I have no recollection of why, as unfortunately although Amazon.fr was able to provide the title and author, it doesn't provide a synopsis that might similarly jog my memory.
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2 comments:
I'm glad it's not just me who suffers from this reading sickness of loving a book and 2 weeks later not being able to remember a damned thing about it.
My mum, for the last few years, has started a reading notebook in which she writes a list of books she has finished. I like to tease her its the onset of dementia but I may start my own soon.
Good idea but I would probably lose the notebook.
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