I was home early last night. as I plan to be for the next two weeks to help me avoid carb-temptation as I start, yet again, another diet. South beach this time.
I decided that its time for some serious reading again. None of these novels, best categorized as cute, that I’ve been reading these past months.
Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged, a book I’ve vowed to read ever since (along with the Bible and War and Peace) was my first candidate. I couldn’t find it. What I found instead were dust-covered copies of Camus’ The Plague and Dostoevsky’s Notes from the Underground.
Two books I know, for a fact, I read in college.
Two works of art, in fact, that Im certain I’ve written reviews for for one philosophy course or another.
Two literary pieces that I remember enjoying and learning from.
Two stories that I absolutely have no recollection of as I blog.
So I scanned through Underground last night. déjà vu was what it felt like. A place I’ve been and abandoned without any real or vivid memory.
Scary thing is this is not the first time this has happened.
Many times, I’d be halfway reading a book or watching a movie when I realize that I’ve read/seen it before.
It scares me shitless.
My grandmother spent the last years of her life battling, no – wrong word, surrendering to Alzheimer’s.
I hear its hereditary.
And Im scared shitless.