one of my few failings

I'm just a few pages away from finishing my latest read, "When We Were Orphans" by Kazuo Ishiguro. Like his other works, this book tackles heady themes: integrity, grief, and in this book, the frailty or tenuousness of memory. It's essentially a treatise on memory, how much we rely on it to justify our existence and make the failings of the present tolerable, but how it is truly a tenuous and sometimes treacherous crutch. It's made an interesting foil to my previous read, David Sedaris' "Dress Your Family In Corduroy and Denim", which is a collection of amusing and sometimes poignant vignettes from the author's child- and young adulthood. As I read that book, I was struck at how unlikely it was that I was reading actual events from Sedaris' past; no one can be that blessed with such a crisp and accurate memory. If I am wrong, then good for him, and how pathetic am I. It is only with great struggle that I can dredge memories from equivalent ages; even when prompted by childhood acquaintances or family antectdotes I sometimes find it difficult to believe I was even present during such events. Day-to-day little forgetfulness I can forgive, though it is tremendously annoying; but it is the thought that so much of my past has disappeared into the ether that makes me curse my lousy brain for its feebleness. I'd be tempted to theorize that I suffer from some dark dirty Freud-style repression but alas no I think I have no such excuse.