I’m re-reading parts of one of my favourite novels, High Fidelity, and noting with both slight amusement and growing alarm that every time I read it, more and more of my life seems to resemble the protagonist’s. I’ve no doubt this recognition was a common one amongst many mid 30s men when it first came out and contributed to its popularity but, considering I grew up with it, have I have unconsciously conspired to torpedo myself for literary consolation?
Maybe it’s like pets and owners and as the years pass you begin to resemble your favourite books. If so, good luck all you Wuthering Heights fiends. (though I would love to meet more of you – I’m sure you’re bags of fun [for a couple of weeks].)