ABSTRACT
Several years ago, I was in a bookstore looking for a birthday present for my aunt, a clinical psychologist in Boston. A few months earlier I had read an interesting novel set in the exotic landscape of New Zealand. As I entered the bookstore, I was thinking of the complex interactions between the two main characters, a young boy and an old woman. I started toward the information booth to ask where I might be able to find the book, but realized that I could recall neither the title of the novel nor the author’s name. Moreover, I was stuck in a horrible tip-of-the-tongue state for both names. I stammered to the clerk that I was looking for a book written by a woman from New Zealand; not much for the store clerk to go on. I could remember the plot and the names of some of the characters in the book, but I could not remember the two critical pieces of information that I needed-the title or the author. In vain, I simultaneously searched the bookstore shelves and the recesses of my memory, but to no avail. After a half an hour or so of this pursuit, I gave up and left the bookstore. Approximately 1 hour later, while playing basketball with friends and not thinking about the incident in the bookstore, the title popped into my mind with the overwhelming confidence of complete certainty. It was The Bone People by Kerri Hulme (1983).
