Perhaps the phrase failed books is a bit harsh. How about disappointing books? Or maybe I might get to them later when I'm in a better frame of mind books? However I describe it, I gotta face facts – these books, during the time I was reading them, eventually failed me. Or, I failed them. We didn't connect. It was a date that did not end well.
I never feel good when I don't finish a book. But I've reached a certain age now, when I no longer feel obligated to finish something that is just not working for me. When I was young and foolish, I felt that once I started a book, there was an unwritten contract between the author and myself, that I had to follow-through no matter how horrible the reading experience. But I'm over 40 now, and my biological book-clock is ticking. I'm not going to live forever, so I can't waste it on words that don't work for me. Below are a few of the books of late which I have broken-up with:
Ex Libris by Ross King
I fell for this one obviously because of the title, but also because of the story: It's a 17th century tale in which Isaac Inchbold, a London bookseller finds himself involved with a widow woman who wants him to recover a rare text which was stolen from her father's mansion during the English Civil War. Lots of mystery and intrigue and historical information, but quite frankly, boring as hell. The characters are all flat and lifeless, and I simply could not muster enough strength to care what was going to happen to any of them. Mr. King may be a great historian, but I think he has a lot to learn about how to be a master storyteller.
Extremely Loud And Incredibly Close
by Jonathan Safran Foer
Ok. I'm gonna use that word again. Authenticity. You know it when you see it. Hard to describe when it's in a good book, and equally hard to describe when it's not. But I'll try. This book don't got it. What it does have a lot of is pretentious, manipulative dreck trying to dress itself up as moving, intellectual literature. Feh. For a more thorough analysis, read what this guy said about the book.
Freddy and Fredericka by Mark Helprin
I feel really bad about not finishing this one. It was recommended to me by a fellow blogger who loved it to pieces (sorry, Caroline!)
Plus, I had been reading good things about it on various other blogs,
and fool that I am, I really liked the book cover, so I thought, what could possibly go wrong?
Me, I guess. I'm what went wrong, because this book is just so wrong
for me. It's supposed to be this wacky, witty, fantasy farce about
Freddy, the Prince of Wales, and his ditzy blond wife Fredericka.
Freddy is a misunderstood prince who, after a series of unfortunate
misadventures is summoned by Buckingham Palace, and told that he and
his wife must go on a quest to conquer foreign lands (read: the US of
A) in order to prove themselves worthy of the throne. The story started
off well, but the endless forced wit and silly Brit talk and lack of
any real story as far as I could see really began to weigh me down.
Never mind that the actual book (hardover and 553 pages) literally
weighed me down just trying to hold the damn thing. More than anything
else, this story suffers from a severe lack of brevity.
The Book Thief by Markus Zusak
It really
pains me to say that I can't finish this book. Because I love the idea.
And it is overall quite well-written. And I did enjoy it in the
beginning. And just about everyone in the blogosphere loved it. So
what's wrong with me? The story is about a young girl, Liesel Meminger,
who is taken to live in Molching, Germany, with a working-class foster
family. The story takes place during the time of WWII and the rise of
Nazism, and you witness what life is like for the average German during
this dark and horrible period in history. There is a great deal of pain
and suffering in this story, and to top it all off, it's narrated by
none other than Death himself. Death is actually quite a likeable
character, who can be at times, quite compassionate. So why didn't it
work for me? Well, for starters, it really is dark. And depressing. On
many occasions I just had to set it aside because I couldn't take the
never-ending sadness. And I really do think that the book is much too
long. But more than anything else, (and here I go again with that word)
I gradually became suspicious about the authenticity of the writing. If
I feel that my emotions are being quite deliberately manipulated, I
begin to get annoyed. I got this sense that the author was trying too
damn hard to be innovative in his writing style, and I think it is a
major flaw within the book. But this is just my opinion. And I may
still one day finish the book. But not at this time of my life, I'll
tell you that.
So there are a few of my break-up books. What do you think? Do you
disagree with me on any of these? Have you got any break-up books that
you'd like to share? (so I won't feel so bad? Please?)
