I was perusing my reading spreadsheet, and my reviews of books I read a few years ago don’t always match my current opinion of the book, based on my memory of it.

[I was perusing my old book reviews, not because I’m diligent about reviewing the things I’ve learned, but because I was trying to put the pieces back together having recently learned an ominous factoid the hard way: when you have all sheets selected, to search in all sheets, editing a row in the current sheet overwrites the data in that row of every other sheet.]

The obvious conclusion is that my recently-celebrated memory is, in fact, feeble, and what I wrote in the spreadsheet cell the day I finished the book is more accurate than what I tell people about the book now. I think this is part of it. I don’t remember most of the details.

But there’s another explanation that I like better. I don’t know whether a book will change my life until it does. Sometimes, I might have a hunch. Or, I might enjoy reading it. But the effect a book has on me has a lot to do with what sticks with me, and if it changes my thinking and behavior. Some books, which didn’t seem that great, communicated an idea that I took to heart, and acted on. When I think back on those books, I don’t remember the prose, or necessarily even the bad/good parts. I remember, that book was half-responsible for me becoming a frugality enthusiast, or that book inspired me to become an ultramarathon runner, or that book make me de-clutter my room and give away half my clothing.

Other books, wonderful books, I read too early or too late, or when I had a stomach ache, and they passed through me without leaving a trace.

Or did they?

If 32,000-year-old seeds buried by Siberian squirrels can germinate and flower, I see no reason to think that impressions planted in my brain a few years ago have expired and become inert. They might be merely dormant, waiting for the right conditions to sprout.

Like the story of the old man who lost his horse, it is too soon to say.