Today’s Metro reports on a woman who can remember every detail of her life. Like many things in the Metro, its recycled news, in this case at least a couple of years old. Nevertheless, its a captivating story, reminiscent of Jorge Luis Borges Funes the Memorius:
We, in a glance, perceive three wine glasses on the table; Funes saw all the shoots, clusters, and grapes of the vine. He remembered the shapes of the clouds in the south at dawn on the 30th of April of 1882, and he could compare them in his recollection with the marbled grain in the design of a leather-bound book which he had seen only once, and with the lines in the spray which an oar raised in the Rio Negro on the eve of the battle of the Quebracho. These recollections were not simple; each visual image was linked to muscular sensations, thermal sensations, etc. He could reconstruct all his dreams, all his fancies. Two or three times he had reconstructed an entire day. He told me: “I have more memories in myself alone than all men have had since the world was a world.” And again: “My dreams are like your vigils.” And again, toward dawn: “My memory, sir, is like a garbage disposal.”
Forgetfulness is sometimes a blessing.