The ones that got away

There's an article in today's Guardian detailing the books which British adults have failed to finish reading. Amongst their ranks are such worthy tomes as the fourth Harry Potter book, David Blunkett's memoirs and Celebrity Racist Jade Goody's autobiography. Being neither a child nor an idiot, my own list is a little bit different.
There are the books which have been hiding at the back of a bookshelf for years, as yet unopened (Messrs Proust and James, pay attention at the back). There's the "never going to read" gang (Dickens and Melville spring to mind), and there's a few where a cursory glance confirmed that I would not be disturbing the contents any further (Mr Joyce, take your Ulysses and shove it where the sun don't shine; Mr Tolkein, I don't "do" elves thanks very much).
And then there's the poor souls who were abandoned somewhere mid-journey.


Leo Tolstoy - Anna Karenina

I made it past the 250 page mark with Anna Karenina, but it suffered from my habit of having multiple books on the go at any one time. I didn't much care for the main characters in any case, so when unnecessarily convoluted descriptions of Russian farming equipment made an appearance, it went back on the bookshelf.. Doesn't bode too well for War and Peace, frankly, with this supposedly being the simpler of the two.

Jack Kerouac - On The Road

Call me an old fuddy-duddy, but I'd rather read some well-crafted prose, where the author has painstakingly chosen every word for maximum impact. There is power in concision and precision. But try telling that to Mr Keroauc and his "oh look at us, we're so rebellious and free with our doing exactly what every generation before us did but with worse haircuts and more verbiage" friends. Bollocks, the lot of 'em.

James Kelman - A Chancer

I tried, god knows I tried. For those not in the know, James Kelman conveys the gritty reality of working-class Glasgow by eschewing the use of punctuation. I've started this book about ten times, but it's just too painful.

James Ellroy - American Tabloid

I've not given up on this yet. There was just too much information coming at me at once in the opening chapters, next time I'm taking notes...

Annie Proulx - The Shipping News

I was getting along just fine with this one, and reasonably enjoying it, and then I just.... stopped. I blame Kevin Spacey.

F. Scott Fitzgerald - The Great Gatsby

I should like this book. I love the 1920s. I think Fitzgerald himself was a fascinating person, though less so than his formidable wife. I should be able to connect with the writing, and finally finish reading it, but something just won't let me. I really don't get it.

Danny Wallace - Yes Man

Now with this, on the other hand, I know exactly what the problem is. Had this not been a Christmas present, it would not be taking up space in my house. For starters, there are the glowing testimonials: Davina McCall declares "The man's a genius". Richard Madeley tells us "This book is a treat". Then of course, there's the fact that I've seen the guy on TV and been thoroughly underwhelmed. But hey! It's a life-affirming tale of positivity! Written in a painfully convoluted, childish fashion, with every gag stretched out for a good two pages more than it can possibly stand, each new paragraph revealing more layers of smug hatefulness until I just want to get a big knife and stab stab stab Mr Wallace through his self-satisfied little heart. But he's not there, so I just throw the book across the room instead.

Antonia Fraser - Mary Queen of Scots

This seemed like a good bet. Before she got her head chopped off, Mary Queen of Scots had a eventful and dramatic life, rich in material for a biography. But while this is well enough crafted, the writer herself leaves me cold. Unfortunately I had already bought another two hefty tomes (one of them a biography of Marie Antoinette) by the same author before I made that discovery. I can always dip into them when need be, but I won't be reading them from cover to cover.

And finally, a special case: the book I did read, but wish that I hadn't:

Ernest Hemingway - The Old Man and the Sea

Or as I like to call it, "I read The Old Man and the Sea, and all I got was this lousy allegory". My heroine, Dorothy Parker, said that Hemingway "has an unerring sense of selection. He discards details with a magnificent lavishness; he keeps his words to their short path"*. By that criterion, I should be a big fan. I don't like to disappoint Dotty P if I can help it. However, this particular work, while only around 100 pages long, feels much, much longer. Maybe it's just too concise, perhaps it's the load which each phrase is made to carry that makes it such hard work. Or maybe its me.




Nah....

*From a review of "Men Without Women", published in The New Yorker, October 29th, 1927