Well Read

Once upon a time I considered myself a well-read man, a reader of the great books. But that feeling has long since dissipated. I’m unable to quote passages from favorite poems or phrases from favorite books. I can’t cite references from memory. The words I’ve read from the books and poems I’ve read are scattered in my memory like so many leaves from winter trees. The titles are there, the authors are there, and even some of the characters are there as well. But nothing feels coherent.

It's as though my brain is a patchwork quilt of random knowledge and stories. And this is not a new thing. It’s always been so. And I don’t know what to do about it, or if there is anything to do about it. Although, just once I’d like to start a sentence with “As so and so once wrote…”, but that’s not how my brain works. Even though I might have read so and so and know the author’s general ideas, the specific words elude me. I’d have to look them up.

Of course, perhaps this is as it should be. The pursuit of knowledge as a solitary endeavor, as a means to inform and construct a life. To give meaning to the seeming madness. To create tools for survival. To build a refuge in the mind. And maybe this is what everyone does no matter what they read, a single book or all the great books. They read a book, get an idea on how to go about life, and then go about it. And that might explain a lot.