Some books I have no memory of reading; I just know I read them. They exist in my mind but have no connection to the real world. Some examples are One Hundred Years of Solitude, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles. These are great books that I think of often, but I have no memory of the physical act of reading them. I can recall certain plot points, and passages from the books, and characters, but if I try to recollect an image of me actually reading them, it’s just me in an undefined white room.
Some books are tied to a specific place and time. Not just general associations like: I remember reading that book during sophomore year of college, or some time after I started working at Denny’s, or when Dr. Paddington recommended it to me. Like I remember the specific act or reading it.
I read Deadeye Dick in Yosemite. I specifically remember sitting outside my tent in the morning reading on a rock. It was clear and sunny and warm, but very shady in the valley under the trees. I remember finishing it later on top of Nevada falls surrounded by squirrels.
I remember reading The Book of Laughter and Forgetting during my daughter’s ballet class. That class is so boring but it’s hard to concentrate on reading. That book was interesting enough to keep my attention. I read a little bit every week. Years later I read No One Belongs Here More Than You there.
I read Swann’s Way in NYC in my apartment. I just walked around the city during the day and read at night. It was one room with a bed, small fridge, a dresser and a TV. The window looked at a wall, but it was always warm inside. After that I read For Whom the Bells Tolls.
I can never think of these books without thinking of the time and place I read them. If I think of these books I am transported to the places I read them.
