The memory is a strange many-splendoured thing

I didn’t read a novel cover to cover until university. I think I did voluntarily read a good chunk of The Catcher in the Rye in the eighth grade during independent reading sessions, though. I remember the gloomy warmth of walks in the snow around campus buildings, the smell of Vicks, and the observation that some people look better in yearbooks than in real life and vice versa for others. 

I’m going to go back to it and see what this constellation of memories means. 


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