If I don’t remember a book I read and loved, does it “count”?

I was startled to see this question, one I’ve been asking myself lately, as the theme of a New York times piece the other day, “At Capacity” by Melissa Kirsch.

Like her, I’ve been reflecting on the experience of doing the Times’ 100 Best Books of the 21st Century, which was a fun interactive article where one can tally up which from the list one has read. (I’m at 32, which seems decent but not too braggy?) Of course many of these I read because of reviews in places like the Times, so it’s a bit circular, like getting brownie points for my good taste from the source that dictates that taste in the first place. But anyway.

As I worked through the list, enjoying the book covers from the last 24 years and congratulating myself for my good taste, I realized my memory was less clear on the books themselves, especially those from maybe the last 10 years. I can replay scenes and themes and more from books I read 15, 20, 30 years ago. But more recently? “That was the one about the… well… gosh,” I think to myself. I remember loving it so much, even if I don’t remember what I loved. Some of them I remember reading in the sun, or on a cozy couch. But the plot or characters?

This blank feels like a pretty big deal. A great deal of my identity is tied up in my cultural consumption. If we compare favorite songs or movies or books, it seems to mean something about who we are and what we value.

So if there’s not much I remember now, does it count? Or in the almost words of Tennyson, is it better to have read and forgotten, than never to have read at all?

I think the answer is yes. Of course it’s yes. Just as I remember only a fraction of my life’s events, surely the ones not on instant recall also have had a profound effect on who I am. What I’ve read (and watched, and thought about) is a part of me somehow, I feel sure, even if the details are either stashed away too deep to find, or maybe gone altogether.

In her article Kirsch likens her brain, with so much to take in, to a nearly-full hard drive, where there’s just not space for everything new. She also lands on the side of “it counts.” She says, “I want to believe that my immersion in the fascinating characters and rich plot of ‘Creation Lake’ by Rachel Kushner are performing some kind of alchemy in my brain even if — and it seems unthinkable, halfway through the book — I am likely to forget it all.”

Wow, me too, I realize. I will forget it all. I guess we will all forget it all eventually.

We could zoom out and ask, since life will inevitably end, is it worth it? That seems like an easy yes. Impermanence feels like it makes things more valuable, not less.

I was moved to read in Thornton Wilder’s preface to “Our Town” (newly staged on Broadway and exactly the kind of thing we will be booking flights to New York for after we become empty nesters!), the play “is an attempt to find a value above all price for the smallest events in our daily life.” Those small, insignificant details matter so much.

There’s something wonderful in reading or watching something that has meaning and value for me, even if I completely forget it sooner that I’d guessed possible.

With that in mind, I’ll mention (while I remember) a few books!

In the exciting leadup to Elizabeth Strout’s new Olive Kitteridge book “Tell Me Everything,” I went back and read three of her earlier books I’d missed: “The Burgess Boys,” “Amy and Isabelle,” and “Abide with Me.” I find her spare, “New England” prose just thrilling, giving so much more feeling than you’d expect from the simple declarative words. Since her characters all pop up in the other books, when I do turn to the new one I’ll be ready.

Other favorite authors who have recent books I’ve enjoyed (and still remember!). I’ll read anything by these folks:

Sally Rooney’s “Intermezzo” is wonderful. Now in her 30s, she’s still got a distinctive Irish cut on the world, and does interior thinking so clearly and well.

“Death at the Sign of the Rook” by Kate Atkinson expands her Jackson Brodie universe with a focus on some new characters, and a sort of anti-detective detective novel.

Colm Toibin’s early work “The Blackwater Lightship” has his characteristic dark family drama. Those Irish parents are tough going, at least in fiction. His “Brooklyn” and its 20-years-later sequel “Long Island” put him on the map, but I think my favorites are “The Master,” about Henry James, and “The Magician,” about Thomas Mann. Historical fiction about the imagined interior lives of these two, totally worth it.

Miranda July’s “All Fours” is making a big splash, a smart yet uncomfortable look at midlife. Like her performance art, you kind of want to sneak out and escape, you can’t believe she’s writing about these things, but I am always glad I stayed.

You can see the beautiful covers of so many books I’ve forgotten at davidkerrdesign.com/about/books/