When do we lose our favourite book?
I was doing my daily Yoga with Adriene today (daily is relative) and as we sat massaging our feet, Adriene asked me – through the screen, she spoke to me – what’s your favourite book? Leave a comment, she said, and tell me what your favourite book is.
And as I sat there, massaging the soles of my feet, I realised that I could no longer answer that once so important of questions: what’s your favourite book?
Back in high school, I would have said Milan Kundera’s Immortality. But I haven’t read it in years, and barely remember it, except for what I used to say when people asked me about it.
“It’s about a man named Milan Kundera who writes a book called Immortality. Also, there is a woman named Agnes, a highway at night, and a wave.”
Or when I was younger, it was The Silver Chair, by C. S. Lewis. A much better adventure story than that rubbishy Christian Wardrobe one, I read it over and over and over.
And before that, A Birthday for Frances, by Russell Hoban. I think I mostly liked it because it was the first book I ever owned that I chose myself.
But at some point, I lost my favourite book. I don’t know how to answer that question anymore. There are many great books. Some of them I loved. As I get older, I rarely re-read anything – it seems like a waste if it’s already been read. What a dreadful way to approach reading.
I want to find my favourite book again. I wonder what it will be and where I will find it? Perhaps it will be behind the sofa.