A few posts ago I mentioned that I’m reading Neal Stephenson’s Quicksilver, a book that I recalled having tried before but failing at.

So I gave it a go once more, starting late last week and reading at a smackdown pace to get through it, so that I could finally say: “Done, dammit.”

For the first hundred or so pages, I read passages and plot swoops that made me say to myself: “Yes, I remember that from the first time I tried reading this.”

The next hundred or so pages: “Huh, yeah, I still remember this.”

The next hundred pages: “Sheesh. I must’ve read further into this tome than I recall.”

Five pages from the end: “Oh, yeah, I remember when he did this. Crap!”

Not much worse than reading a book that you don’t like than reading it twice without realizing it. I’m a fool. After finishing the last paragraph, which, yes, I remembered, I gave the paperback a flourishing, frustrated thrust onto the floor in the middle of the room where it landed disheveled on its pages. Ah, well.

I’m a fool.