When you think that you've read every book by a certain author, especially that one, but you happen to take a browse through that book again at the library and turns out that you actually haven't read it. So you take it home and start to read and it's brilliant! But then about fifty pages in creeping familiarity suggests that you actually have read this book and just forgotten most of it, even though it's so delightful and funny. So you continue to read it since about ninety percent of it is basically brand new to you and your addled brain, and you enjoy it immensely. Again. And then you go eat some coconut oil and worry about the concussions you received as a child.
I have often wished when I've completed a particularly good book that I could go into my brain and erase the book so I can read it anew once again. Should I worry or celebrate?