I recently discovered that a friend who was re-reading Bleak House had done no other Dickens apart from Barnaby Ridge. That's just weird. I shamed and nagged him into picking up Great Expectations instead. But when I tried to recall anything about it other than its excellence, I failed. Maybe there was something about a peculiar stepfather? Or was that This Boy's Life? And I realized that, as this is true of just about every book I consumed between the ages of, say fifteen to forty, I havent even read the books I think I've read. I can't tell you how depressing this is. What's the fucking point?
The author reflects on a conversation with a friend who, despite re-reading Charles Dickens' Bleak House, has only previously read Barnaby Rudge, which strikes the author as odd. He encourages his friend to read Great Expectations but struggles to recall specific details about the book, demonstrating a gap in his literary memory. This prompts him to consider how many other books he believes he has read but can't truly remember, particularly from a significant period of his life.
This realization brings a sense of disappointment and frustration, as the author contemplates the value of these reading experiences. He expresses a sense of futility, questioning the point of reading if he cannot retain or recall the content. This introspection reveals a deeper concern about the impact of reading on his life and highlights a common struggle with memory and the significance of literature in one’s personal growth.
