For years, I used to say fondly that I did not know the name of my favourite book. This was absolutely true. I was fond of saying that because it sounded mysterious.
There had been a book at some point in my life that I had read and loved. Loved more in fact than any other up to that point. And so, as we often do with the books we love, I lent it to someone I believed could profit by it.
The book was lost, unread. For years I looked for it in vain. The person on whom this burden had been bestowed could not for the life of her find it, or so she told me. Futile Google searches were now and then attempted, in the hopes that some lucky combination of keywords would bring back the name of the author or the title of the book. They never did.
Yet, somehow, 13 years after, the book has been found. It was this book.
Would I find it so puzzlingly thrilling as I once did should I pick it up again? That is a question I dare not ask myself, but think that I should let this idol rest in the glory of my ever-fading memory.