In order to prepare for writing the children’s book I’m currenly working on, I asked my parents to give me a bunch of the books I read as a child. Seeing them again was a strange experience, because I don’t really remember them – and yet I do. Clearly some sort of information about them still exists in my brain, I can still recall fragments of thought or emotion somehow related to them… but not quite.
I guess it’s different if you keep these things around you as you grow up, or if you continue to live in the same place where you grew up. But I moved away from home years ago, and these books had long been packed up in boxes by then. It’s all impossibly far away, almost like it’s someone else’s childhood.
Coming back to Greece is always a strange experience, but this year doubly so.
