Inspired by my fellow bloggers posts at Dead White Guys and Literary Musings, I thought this could be an interesting exercise. Let me explain. I am a compulsive reader. My friend Bob saw me read Cyrano de Bergerac once and told me: "Man, you'd read the back of shampoo bottles". I thought it brilliantly resumed my love for fiction. If everybody hates you, I want to read you because I want to know why. If I hate you, I want to read you because I want to give you a reason. So if I intend to never read your book, you're doing something very wrong.
Finnegan's Wake by James Joyce: OK, I'm cheating. I have read a hundred and twenty pages of this one. Afterwards, I closed the book and told myself "No. James Joyce, I refuse to let you steamroll me with your non-sense". Since then, I condemned the book to being a book shelf ornament.
I'm not turned off by complicated books usually. I have read Ulysses from cover to cover and mildly enjoyed it despite finding it pedantic ("hey literary critics look at me! I'm using 18 styles!")Finnegan's Wake is in another ball park. The only way to find this book enjoyable is to make a PhD on a single chapter and even then you'd only find out he talked about Dublin all along.
Mansfield Park by Jane Austen: No matter how "out of a good book to read" I am, there are many writers I would re-read two or three times before simply approaching Jane Austen. There's a reason why people re-make her books with zombies and sea monsters. Those stories are so entrenched in a certain time, space and social condition that wouldn't cut it out today if she queried.
I have seen the movie of Price & Prejudice and it gave me a concussion. Since then, the very sight of a Jane Austen novel make me recoil in a Pavlovian reflex. It's a writer I feel detached from every of her preoccupations. I have made peace with the idea of leaving this world without having read one of her novels.
Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert: I'm sure you all guessed. Don't get me wrong, one day I'll challenge myself and watch the movie. On a snake ridden plane or if somebody threaten the life of my dogs for example. But the novel? I don't think so. Reading is an active process done over a precise time span and I can think of a million better things to do than reading Mrs. Gilbert's filthy little tome. Like pranking gators at the zoo for example.
The Secret by Rhonda Byrne: First of all it's been spoiled to death. I also like Les Grossman's rendition better. I don't know why I should read a 198 pages book when a bald executive resumed it perfectly as: " The universe... is talking to us right now. You just gotta listen." and " This is when the job gets fun! Ask... and you shall receive!" Sorry Rhonda, no time or money from me.
Big Girl by Danielle Steele: I challenge you to give me a valid reason to read Danielle Steele.
Eugénie Grandet by Honoré De Balzac: I have read two Balzac novels befre and came to a very simple conclusion. Life is too short and there are way too many good novels to bother finding qualities to a writer that was paid by the word and spread himself out like the bottom of a hazelnut spread pot.
World Without End by Ken Follett: I have read Pillars Of The Earth and thought it was pretty decent. The sequel reeks of an easy cash-in. I literally have a copy of the book at home and I refuse to pick it up. Josie read it and pretty much confirmed my dread over the sequel of a book who really shouldn't have gotten any.
Buddenbrooks: The Decline Of A Family by Thomas Mann: I have learned my lesson with The Magic Mountain, a book that knocked me out cold with its austerity. I didn't turn my back on Thomas Mann, but if I ever go back to him, it's going to be for shorter stuff like Death In Venice.
Time Regained by Marcel Proust: I have read Swann's Way and from the atrocious suffering I endured through this trial, it's highly unlikely that I'm going to get to the end of In Search For Lost Time. It's a nagging issue because I feel I'm going to miss a mandatory reader experience if I don't but it's highly unlikely that I will. Maybe if I have actually TIME to read this demanding and unforgiving behemoth.
Twilight by Stephanie Meyer: In all logic, I should read it because I'm bagging on it so much. However if I do, I know I'm going to start feeling hollow and dead inside, knowing I won't get those precious hours of my life back. Like Elizabeth Gilbert's case, I have a feeling I'm going to end up watching the movies (which in a sense triggered the Twilight problem), but I refuse to spend so much energy on something like this. I don't hate it that much. Read Twilight if you want, but just don't tell me it's good literature, let alone a good story.
