i've just realised that i've lent out one of my favourite books: william goldman's the princess bride. my brother, danny, gave me this book when i was about fourteen years old. it was the best kind of gift. he loved it and knew that i would love it too. i must've read that book 10 times as many years lent it out just as frequently. it always came back to me. dogeared, shelfworn, the cover just about hanging by a thin layer of paper. i had it in a cheap, loose plastic cover that i had happened to find a package of on supersale at the bookstore years ago. i guess they were on sale because, well, who covers their mass market paperbacks? except me. they came in handy. but now see as i get on in years, my memory is not quite what it was twenty years ago. i forget where i put things all the time. people always tell you to write these things down, and i always think, yeah, i'll do that and then never do. in the back of my mind i kind of think that's cheating. i should remember these things, and yes, the person i lend the book too should remember it is mine. who would keep such a clearly cherished volume for themselves, on purpose? i can't believe i would have lent it out to someone who would be so careless. i'm a good judge of character. my friends respect books. they must. soon, i will have to give up on it. but right now, since i've just realised it is missing i have to think that it may still be possible to remember who has it and that it could still make it back to me.
