One reason to go back to the US for a week or two

I had a totally weird experience earlier this week. My parents, for Christmas, got me one of the books I used to read over and over again at around the age of 8, and then never saw again. I assume there was a lot of hassle and aggravation on their part, too, because I looked for this book for over a year and could never find it. It was Jean Ure's Plague. I used to get it out of the elementary school library every week (I don't know why I was so fixated, okay? Maybe it was foreshadowing of the hold Doomsday Book would have over my life from the age of about 12 to the present day.) And so I did a lot of gloating over it, and then I sat down and actually read it, and it was a completely different book from the one I remember reading. A lot of it apparently went straight over my head, and the book I remember it being was made up from the 20% of it that didn't.

I have had this experience before, of course. Last year when I was living at home and going slowly out of my mind, I went through all my stuff in the attic and unearthed my copy of Diana Wynne Jones's Dogsbody (the spine now consists mostly of Scotch tape). And I realized that although I had retained nearly all of that book, the political part of it had passed me by completely at the age of 7 and I belatedly did a lot of "OHHHH!" (INCIDENTALLY. This book is the reason why I named my blog this, and why the color scheme is black and green, and why I chose Antares for my screenname [although I had completely forgotten that Antares was the high judge in the book until I reread it last year, at which point I lawled], and why I own a telescope, and why I have intended to name my first dog Sirius since I was 7. It has nothing to do with any other female British writers who may or may not have written books that contain characters named Sirius who change into dogs. I'm still angry that my future dog will not be named Sirius because I am not that big of a masochist. Damn, that was a long and angry digression.) But that was the first time I have ever said to myself "Damn, is this really the same book? Because I would totally not believe it was the same book if I didn't remember these tiny details, given that about 80% of the plot is totally unfamiliar to me."

So now, I would actually really like to go home and go through the attic again and see what else I am completely misremembering. Stuff I still pick up and read from time to time when I am cranky won't work, like the Redwall books (shut up, they rule) but stuff I haven't picked up in at least 15 years should be interesting. I had every single Oz book ever written (L. Frank Baum actually wrote 9 of them, and then a bunch of other people wrote a bunch more, and I was spoiled and had illustrated hardback editions from the 1930's, I think, that I still hoard in my room) but I haven't read any of them since I was 8. Then I had most of Madeline L'Engle's books, but I've only read a few of them since I was 10, and the rest are in the attic somewhere. And I know there are more, because my parents were good about providing books, and our house is a black hole into which books disappear and are never heard from again ("WHAT? Get rid of books? ARE YOU INSANE?") and that complerely surreal reading experience has made me curious.