Monday, 4 August 2014

The Memory of Love

Someone I know is re-reading one of David Eddings' books (Book 3 of The Elenium). I hope she's enjoying it. I did when I first read it.

I am afraid to go back and read Eddings' books. I read them in the 80's and loveLOVEloved them. They, especially The Belgariad, were formative books for me and my writing career. I remember them as fun, adventurous and eucatastrophic. They occupy a warm spot in my heart next to The Great Adelaide and Granite Youth Symphony.

A few years ago I came across a couple of Piers Anthony's Xanth books, another series I loved as a teen. So when these short little books showed up unexepectedly, I snagged them and dove into one, hoping to relive the exuberant and silly fun of my youth.

What. A. Mistake.  I read the first book in ever-growing horror. Were these books truly this bad and teenage me hadn't a clue when it came to taste in literature? In case I got the One Bad Xanth Book, I abandoned the first and began the other.

Nope, it was as bad as its companion. My lovely childhood memories were shattered. How could I not see the appalling plotline, the sexist characters and trite style in my youth?

Since then, I've been afraid, almost terrified to revisit any book I once loved. While I would love to read them again, and fall in love again, I have no guarantee. Sometimes the memory of love is better than the chance of losing it.

Her Grace has lost many things she's loved, so she's doing her best to hang on to the ones shes got left.

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