“Finally, from so little sleeping and so much reading, his brain dried up and he went completely out of his mind.” – Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, Don Quixote
You know the way scent interacts with memory? Like you smell something you haven’t smelled in years, say a very specific kind of pie, and instantly you’re reliving Christmas morning when you were eleven, right before you smelled (and ate) that same pie?
Books are like that for me. In the shorter term, I can take a look at the books I read in the past year or two, just flip through random blog pages here, and immediately remember where I was. A bus or a train or plane or a couch. What was happening at the time. Work. Life. There’s deep associations between the life I am living and the book I am reading. Scent plays a factor too. I purposely bought a box set of Lord of the Rings hardcovers years ago because they’re identical to the copies I read when I was a kid; the smell of the pages is a thrilling sensory memory of the excitement I felt when I first laid eyes upon middle earth.
I find myself musing because I am reading the second part of Don Quixote. According to goodreads, I read the first part in September of 2011. It’s been sitting on my shelf — actually on three or four different shelves to match my changing apartments — with the bookmark dead center since. I picked it up when I found myself completely unable to decide what to read next.
And the memory sense kicked in big time. The heft of the book, the jagged-edge pages, the feats of the peerless knight errant himself. It connects me to a self that feels removed. A separate coast, an enormously different life. Life changes of course, but it can be difficult to quantify. The sense and memory shift that can be achieved with something so simple as opening a book helps me grasp that fact.