Originally published on 16 January 2012
I love poetry. In a few words, a few lines, an idea that can make you laugh or cry. Like this one—"Forgetfulness"—by Billy Collins, our national poet laureate from 2001 to 2003:
The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,
as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones. …
Of course, this one strikes precariously close to the bone, so I'm not sure whether I should chuckle over the shared sentiment or start stocking up on brain food.
I've had one too many close calls, you see.
Some months ago I had occasion to meet up with Kimberly Stuart, one of the authors I edit. (In fact, I had recently sent editorial notes to her for our third book together.) She was in town for a book signing, and we had a perfectly delightful time discussing kids, vacations, and the sheer insanity of hoping we could have a healthy breakfast at Merridee's Breadbasket without sampling the luscious baked goods.
A pie, say. (I settled for a lemon bar, she for a cream cheese danish.)
And then we strolled down to the bookstore.
"So what do you think of Stretch Marks?" Kim said as we walked.
Oh dear. In that instant, every single brilliant insight I'd had about her book—not to mention any coherent thought at all, right down to the name of the protagonist—was gone. I was completely blank.
"Um … I like it." How could I tell her? (Actually, I love it. Of all the books I've done with her, it's my all-time fave.)
But there was no saving this situation.
Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay. …
… or the plot of the book you're working on with an author you love. The book I'd read twice in very recent memory and then written up detailed, multipage notes. That book. Um.
This had never happened to me before (nor has it happened since, thank goodness). I can normally expound at length (ad nauseam!) about whatever I'm working on. I love talking about work, because I love what I do, full stop. When I'm reading I make copious notes. Put that file up on my monitor, and I'm good to go.
But this particular day, not so much. Kim was slightly alarmed, needless to say, although she handled it gracefully. Thus later ensued a speculative conversation on the warning signs of senile dementia. (Early onset senile dementia, I should say.)
I still don't know what happened that day. Billy Collins says,
Whatever it is you are struggling to remember
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.
It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.
Nice.
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