Saturday, February 05, 2011
From The Valley of Scorned Books
Some folk have no problems tossing aside a book. They get to page fifty, decide it isn't worth their time, and without a qualm, pitch the offender. Me? If I get to page ten, I'm probably going all the way. A book has to be something extraordinarily horrible for me to give it the heave ho. I'll curse the author, the editor, the publisher, their parents, wives, immediate and extended families, and rend my clothing---but I'll finish the damned book.
In the last few years, I've only abandoned three or four reads. One was the work of a well-known and successful genre author who heavy-handedly beat me up with his ideology (one diametrically opposed to my own). Another was a book sent my way by a publisher who asked for a review (I made it through half the novel before deleting it from the Kindle). I wrestled with this one, trying to decide how to say something, anything, which might be used for promotion. In the end, I remained silent. What else could I do?
I wonder what my inability to abandon a book says about me as a person? Is it part of the strangeness that makes me think the furniture dances when I head off to bed? That the plates convene a some sort of meeting? Or that books sit on a shelf, waiting their turn, hoping to read and enjoyed and then reshelved, rather than cast aside in scorn.