Books Haunting the Narrative

I read a lot as a child. Slightly fewer books as a teenager, but still a lot. This was less because of a voracious love of stories I would always remember, and more of a compulsion...so when I walk through the imaginary library in my brain, the feelings I have about the hundreds (thousands?) of books I have read are pretty grey. I might remember a title, or a cover, or an author's name SUPER vividly, or I might remember a bunch of details about a book it seems like nobody in the universe has also read (RIP to those books, I tried so hard to find them for this list), but most of the time I just have vague friendly feelings toward a book. Or, as it turns out, a lot of books give me a weird sinking feeling because apparently I was just reading them out of an obligation not to give up on them even though I hated them. But there are books I think about now as an adult that punch me in the FACE. Books that make me ask "oh...is THAT why I am the way I am?" These are those books.