“But that’s Tolstoi,” I said.
“Very likely,” he replied; “I’ve no memory for some things. No memory at all. But I’ve read more than you might expect. To be quite honest, when I was a bit younger I read too much.”
I pricked up my ears. I saw the promise of getting him to talk about himself. And I can listen to anything a man has to tell me of his own history; it is only men’s opinions that I find so boring. Why will people have opinions?
“And overstrained your memory?” I asked.
He shook his head and pursed his mouth. “It wasn’t that that ruined my prospects,” he said.
“No?” I commented, as provocatively as I could.
He leaned a little forward and frowned with an effect of thoughtful concentration as he said, “You see, in some ways I’ve got too good a memory; the trouble with me is that I can’t remember what I’ve remembered.”
I raised my eyebrows interrogatively. I could see that he was warm, now, with the craving to confess himself.
“You aren’t a writer, yourself, by any chance?” he asked.
“I’ve done a certain amount,” I admitted.