Not the Same as Reading It

I wish my father, Norman Barwin, or my mother, Myrna Barwin — or indeed both of them, as they were equally responsible — had been more careful when they conceived me. Procreation is a matter of which particular sperm meets which particular egg, and so its composition is fluid. (It is like reading: that conjunction of a certain text with a certain reader, where magic happens.) What if my mother had reminded my father to set the alarm clock right before they got down to business? Would I have been different? Would my nose have been more statuesque or streamlined? Would I have been the type of person who always gets to the end of a book? Like many I know, I often quote titles I have not finished, which I suppose is better than those who quote them without ever having cracked the spine. And here I am paraphrasing one of my favourite novels, The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman, a novel I have yet to finish, at least not in order. But isn’t that...