Lucy Mangan recently said she read so many books that most of them just slip straight through leaving no trace. Now this speaks to me. Chaim Potok covered the theme brilliantly in one of his novels, but, as if to prove the point, I can't remember which one.
On Saturday I was talking to Tim Edwards about Life of Pi - one of the more memorable books I've read in years - and he mentioned a scene of which I have no recollection whatsoever.
Now, as most of you know, I didn't do very well with my A-levels. They were hard to combine with the onerous task of being a box-room rebel. I still sometimes put the English Civil War in the wrong century, and if I ever read about the Law of Marginal Utility I suddenly find myself doodling a picture in the margins of a disaffected youth saying "don't let the bastards grind you down."
However, English Lit was different. Sure, I quickly decided the way to go with Milton and Chaucer was Brodie's Notes, but was there ever a better text to study for an angry young man than Hamlet; was there ever better preparation for a wasted life than Saul Bellow's Henderson the Rain King; and was there ever a better play about hanging around staring at your shoes than Troilus and Cressida?
I know huge chunks of these texts off by heart, and have carried their petit-philosophies with me for more than thirty years, in fact it wouldn't be an exaggeration to say they have helped define my life - I should probably sue the examining board.
All of which is a self-indulgent way of saying that every morning this month, I've been preparing for the day with the following paraphrase
"Those scraps are good deeds past...Forgot as soon
As soon. Perseverance , dear my lord, keeps honour bright."
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