For years, William James’s The Varieties of Religious Experience has sat on my bookshelf reproaching me for my laziness and ignorance. It was one of a handful of “great books” in my modest library that I hadn’t yet got around to reading. Few people dispute the notion that Varieties is a hugely significant book, by one of America’s greatest thinkers, on a vitally important subject. No more excuses, then. The time had come to enlighten myself. So, a few weeks ago, I pulled out my copy, blew off the dust, opened it, and was met with the horrifying sight of my own handwriting. At the end of each chapter, I had scribbled detailed, hideously pedantic notes summarizing James’s arguments. In fact, I had read The Varieties of Religious Experience. And hadn’t remembered a word of it.
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