when i was 14 or 15 i bought a ratty old paperback at a used bookstore titled “the world is not enough”. it must have been 4 or 5 hundred pages long and concerned life in a castle in france during the 14th/15th centuries (as best i can remember.)
the protagonist was a young page to one of the knights of the castle, about the same age as me at the time who falls in love with the daughter of the prince whose castle it was. there was much mooning about, secret passageways leading from one bower to another; the young page could often be found sitting in une fenêtre of the castle tower watching the goings-on in the castle’s court with its smell of horses, shouts of the other pages, clanking of armor, and the smell of cooking fires. the book seemed to me to be my autobiography from another life and time, so much so that i could not shake that sense of dèja vu, of having lived that life for years afterwards (still can’t, obvsly.)
i lost the book years ago and now i believe that i do not correctly remember its title–i’ve searched for it over the intervening years, wanting to read it again to see if it holds the same spell over me it did so many years ago, but i’ve not been able to find it and all i’m left with is my memory of it and the belief that i lived there and then.