My Life as an Experiment

A.J. Jacobs seems like a pretty fun guy, in his essays and assorted books. Well, mostly, anyway, since he keeps talking enough about his OCD and other issues that I'm sure it'd get maddening at times eventually, but you know what? I think I'm done with him.

Seriously, I can't remember this ever happening to me in my entire life.

I read a lot of books. Over the last six years, I've reviewed more than 50 a year on this blog, and I've read rather more books than just those. With episodes of sitcoms, I sometimes find myself wondering whether I've seen it before or not, but books? These, I climb into for the duration of my reading, taking on aspects of them as we coexist, however briefly.

Except that during my recent Gulf Islands holiday, I read A.J. Jacobs' My Life as an Experiment. Decent book, because there's room in the world for lightweight stunt journalism that takes itself seriously, but it turns out that I'd already read this book. LESS THAN TWO YEARS AGO. And somehow I'd forgotten. The separate experiments felt a little familiar, but the book club talked about Jacobs' assorted books quite a bit when we read his Year of Living Biblically (which I didn't read, embarrassingly), so I just thought I was remembering the guys' versions.

So -- methinks I'm not reading A.J. Jacobs again. Anyone got a reason for me to read something by an author whose book had so little impact on me that I could read the same book twice, and not remember the first reading?


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