Alzheimer’s is one of the saddest things in the world. Except from one angle it can also be kind of beautiful:

Actually, our bodies turn out to be quite merciful by nature, a little amnesia rather than anesthesia at the end. Our memory, which is leaving us, lets us play a bit longer, one last time in the Elysian fields of childhood. A few well-begged-for, please-just-five-more-minutes, like in the old days, playing outside in the street. Before we get called home for good.

This felt like pieces of three different books, rather than a coherent, single thing. The first part (which the above is from) was a bit of philosophizing on the value, virtue and appeal of nostalgia, with a kind of fun story woven in. There’s a bit about our sense of smell (revisited several times throughout the book) that I’ve been thinking about since I read it.

The second part was the dystopia, but still full of interesting ideas:

I presume that 1968 did not exist in 1968. Nobody back then said, Hey, man, that stuff we’re living through now, it’s the great ’68, which’ll go down in history. Everything happens years after it has happened… You need time and a story for that which has supposedly already taken place to happen… with a delay, just as photos were developed and images appeared slowly in the dark… Most likely 1939 did not exist in 1939, there were just mornings when you woke up with a headache, uncertain and afraid.

Lastly, the thing kind of gives into the abstract and absurd nature of itself. This was the weakest, but still rewarding.

Honestly, there are so many interesting ideas packed into this little book, it’s worth digging in even if you don’t care for the story.