Obsolete Reading? Another Dull Rant (Some SPOILERS)

I have a problem. I don’t finish books. I read the majority of the text, absorbing myself in whatever situation or circumstance the author has created, and then, all of a sudden…I stop.

Sometimes, I get bored. A few years ago, I decided to read “Love In The Time of Cholera” after watching Serendipity for the umpteenth time. Don’t laugh, it’s a movie based on absurdity, but what movie isn’t. I’m also a sucker for John Cusack and a hopeless romantic…*ahem* but I digress. I got up to page 402 out of 424 and stopped reading. Why? The sheer nothingness of the characters’ situation began to settle and I grew tired of the futility that was presenting itself.

Another time I started reading “Peter Pan” – we all know the animated stories, the romanticised versions that have been churned out by studios over the years. But have you ever started reading the actual novel? J.M. Barrie can seriously come across as a misogynistic twat at times. I gave up around chapter 2.

“The Consolations of Philosophy” by Alain de Botton; “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” – Mark Twain; Herodotus; Michael Crichton – don’t think it was the genre I was reading, my inability to finish what I had started transcended genres – J.D. Salinger; Jane Austen; Nietzsche; the list goes on. Until it hit me the other day: I have a bookshelf full of novels, history books, literature, all either half finished or not even started.

This brings me to my current venture: “Nausea” by Jean-Paul Sartre. Sartre. One of the beacons of Existentialism, or, as I like to refer to him – the most boring bastard that ever lived. Oh sorry, that’s just his main protagonist. Sartre you wang, I cannot believe that this book – this 200+ novel that I picked up on the basis that you had something intelligent to impart on the world, something that would show me a different perspective to what I refer to as reality – has brought me nothing but the novel’s namesake itself. Sure, there are wafts of sense contained within its pages, but that wafting is a precursor to the fatigue and slight indigestion I felt upon struggling through your protagonist’s self-indulgent, and extremely arrogant internal monologues.

I now have  a choice, dear Sartre, struggle through the next 40 pages, or push past the the need for QuickEze, and have the satisfaction in knowing, that if I finish subjecting my mind to your drivel, I can finish “Love In The Time of Cholera”, Herodotus….and so many other things I’ve hovered upon.

This too shall pass after all.



~ by lechatnoirmon on July 10, 2012.

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