Wallace Yovetich fondly recalls taking an entire year to finish reading a single book:
I’ve never again taken that long to finish a book. There hasn’t been the need, which solidifies this book as important to me and as one of my favorites. It means more to me than just the story between the covers because it holds the story of that entire year of my life. When I see it now on my shelf I am taken back in time – I remember the relationship that started that fall as I started the book, that faltered as many times as I put the book down, and that was picking up speed again as I picked up speed in the reading. I can remember the events of the world from that winter as I distracted myself with the story, and the promotion at work that spring that kept me busy and away from the book. I remember the planning of that particular summer trip to Europe, and the choosing of the book. I can even remember which train, plane, and country I was traveling on and through during different points of the plot.
I haven’t re-read the book, though I think about doing so from time to time. I wonder to myself if the magic would be gone; if it was just the right book at the right time; if I want to paste over the memories that are embedded in the pages with new ones. I’m not ready to find out the answers.
I’m purposefully not telling you the name of this book, because this anecdote isn’t about how fantastic this particular story was (though, it was pretty great). It’s about honoring the time we spend in what we are reading, why some books last in our minds and others don’t, and how sometimes a really great book can make for a really interesting year.
