I heard Borges say he remembered one evening his father had told him something very sad about memory, he said - I thought I could remember my childhood when I first arrived in Buenos Aires, but now I know I can’t, because I think if I remember something, for example, if today I remember something from this morning, I get an image of what I saw this morning. But if tonight I remember the thing from this morning, then what I remember is not the first image I had of that thing, but the first remembered image. And so each time I am remembering I am not really remembering it, I am only remembering the last memory. So in reality, I have absolutely no memories or images of my childhood, of my youth.
I always feel very happy when I dont understand something and it works the other way around: when I read something that I understand perfectly, I put it aside in disappointment. I dont like stories with understandable plot lines. Because understanding can be a sentence. And not understanding, a door swinging open.