What is left of some of the books you’ve read? One scene? Two scenes? Vague outlines of the plot? Name of the main character? Or maybe the circumstances under which you read this story or that novel? Like you were happy. Like you were depressed. Like you were late to catch the train.
Of some books nothing is left. Not even the title. Not even the name of the goddamned writer.
Not a pleasant thought, but one you get increasingly to grips with. Your one hope is that it has all somehow dissolved within you. Your blood, your psyche. That art heals, forgives, makes you better. Your one hope is that you won’t die, just like all those books you don’t remember. It’s a false hope, but you can't afford to abandon it.