One of the unsettling events that sometimes occur in a lifetime of reading is sitting down to read a book for what I think is the first time, and then discovering in it a marginal note which proves that I've been there before.
Even more unsettling when the note suggests a more complete understanding of the text than I seem to be managing today!
Apparently there really was a time when I could do differential equations.
(Readers familiar with the story referenced in my title might be amused when I reveal that my given name is Charlie.)
Oh dear, why do I find this funny when I suffer that similar fate also?
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