Six Feet of Books: Giving Up on a Book, but First…

A short note. So much has transpired over the past few months. Progress out of the pandemic is slower than anyone would like but is picking up steam with the addition of a third vaccine and hopefully a broader and more equitable distribution of the available supply. Efforts at rejoining the world community are promising, various of the more egregious policies of the last administration have been countermanded or reversed. There is so much work to do on the serious issues we face. But the threats to the basic democratic processes, to truth, science, basic decency, seem as great as anytime in our history. Those that deny basic objective truths and encourage others to act on the basis of lies and misinformation must be held accountable. The most recent attempts to suppress voting and to resist reforms intended to expand access to voting because increased voter turnout means fewer Republicans will be elected is appalling. The fact that the reasons for doing so are transparent and admitted freely, with barely an attempt to provide even a phony excuse, is even more appalling. There is so much more to say on these subjects, but I cede the floor to those who say it better, more eloquently, and with more expertise than I. For one of those, if you have not done so already, check out historian Heather Cox Richardson’s Letters from an American, at www.heathercoxrichardson@substack.com.

On to books.

I don’t know about you, but I hate not finishing a book. I used to force myself to keep reading, even if I was not enjoying the book. Sometimes it worked out—I finally got caught up in the story or got the hang of the writing and the pace of the book or just got in the right frame of mind and was happy to finish. But other times, it seemed a bit like taking medicine, necessary but unpleasant. At some point, I decided life is too short. If I am not enjoying reading a book, I give myself permission to simply put it down, although rarely without feelings of guilt. Maybe I will go back at some point, maybe not. I know that’s a bit unfair to the writer. Sometimes it just takes a while. But so be it.

I was particularly disconcerted when I bogged down while reading Hilary Mantel’s The Mirror and the Light, the final book in the trilogy that began with Wolf Hall. I read the first two books enthralled, watched the plays when they were shown on television, and saw them when they came to New York. I looked forward to the final book, completing the story of Thomas Cromwell, chief advisor to Henry VIII. The ending is no mystery. The book is true to history and no spoiler alert is required (but stop reading now if you so choose); Cromwell follows those whose demise he either engineered or facilitated or both.

The length and breadth of the book is intimidating. Not so different from the first two books. You would think the enforced isolation of the pandemic would be the perfect opportunity to undertake such a project. But I found myself laboring through the book, reading on and off, reading less daunting books in between, until I finally stalled. I don’t understand it. The writing is elegant, the story is fascinating, but I cannot seem to finish it. When I did finally pull myself together to read to the end, I had lost my place and just could not get my bearings. I put it aside again. I still have not finished it but am reluctant to officially abandon the effort.

Then I noticed small but growing piles of partially read books gathering in my favorite reading spots, looking forlorn and abandoned. It got me to thinking. Is it happening with greater frequency? Am I just too ambitious or more likely, not realistic? And what is this need to finish? Do I see not finishing a book once started as a failure on my part? Perhaps worse than not reading it at all? The Mantel book for one, is a significant investment, hundreds of pages, hours of reading, only to fail before getting to the end. Reading a book, as enjoyable an activity as one can imagine, and I failed? Or is it just an unfinished job like the various household tasks I intend to complete but never quite get to? I doubt Hilary Mantel would be thrilled to know I compared reading her book to finally fixing the loose hinge on the kitchen cabinet.

Sometimes I do admit to myself that it may be that the book is just not interesting enough or the writing clunky or too academic or something else. And perhaps “failure” is not the right word. In this time of isolation, you would think there would be time to read more, but there never seems to be enough. I remain plagued by the sense I have let myself down, let the author down, proven not up to the task.

What do you think?