I have at least five books on the go at all times. All started/half read but they are enjoyable, don’t get me wrong, I just can’t finish them. I rarely choose literature outside of my oeuvre; music, sport, contemporary fiction (eg, DeLillo, Hornby). Sounds like quite a small interest area but there’s a veritable plethora of worthwhile reads out there. Which brings me to the aforementioned problem; I cannot bring myself to finish books. From meaty tomes to novelettes. They all remain unfinished.
You can make friends with a good book which is why it can be so painful to depart. Something that you have invested hours and hours in, sharing in its pain and revelling in its joy and then when you’re done you put in on the shelf/in a cupboard/tossed into that messy box room that everyone has gathering dust and being left to years of neglect. Or if it’s one of the lucky few being taken to the charity shop placed in the plastic bag of fate hiding from the indignity of it all.
There is a strange sense of accomplishment getting to the middle of a book; you’re in the thick of it, having put the effort in are embroiled in its pages and can look forward knowing that it is worth it. I recently finished a book and now I sort of regret it. John Feinstein’s Living on the Black is a tale of two major league pitchers who are lock hall of famers and nearing the ends of their careers. This book is a season in the life, something that Feinstein is particularly brilliant at. I quickly became engrossed in the lives of two players I had barely heard about and I did not want to have to leave them. I wanted their story to go on indefinitely. But all good things must end. Cue Shakespearean face of angst and woe. So I normally aim to prolong it by never finishing a book. Everything is left in the balance and the words that lie ahead can live for a bit longer.
This was a problem throughout my English degree with having to read about three books a week (I’m probably exaggerating there). Everything had to be read analytically and, what seemed more importantly, quickly! There didn’t seem to be a need to enjoy what you were reading instead we were turned into robots, mechanically thundering through pages of text soiled with pen, pencil and highlighter marks. Not the way to treat a lady, not the way to treat a book. Having to buy second-hand books was always a bit depressing but completely necessary. Going into places like Waterstone’s always made me feel a bit jealous of the people in their being able to buy shiny new novels with their spines uncracked, corners not dog-eared and pages untorn. I felt ashamed walking past the steepling book shelves with my man-bag full of note paper and well-worn books (I’d say well-loved only there’s no way these looked as if they have ever been loved, more severely abused, their previous owners placed on some sort of register).
One of the problems with having to read quickly and analytically is that you aren’t able to fully immerse yourself in the book. It’s more wham, bam thank you mam than something you pay due care and attention to. There was no loving test of endurance having to read in this manner. I feared it would kill off my love of reading forever which left me feeling no great desire to read these books on the set lists. I’ll admit some were left unbought or untouched. I soldiered on in ignorance. Maybe if I would have done the reading, in all honesty there wasn’t a lot else left to do I was just lying to myself, I might be all the better for it. I’ll never know.
To complete a book is both a great moment of achievement and a moment of sadness. I’m not saying that with each book I finish I grow ever more slightly suicidal. There’s that sense of achievement and a sense of moving forward. There’s also the tendency to look back and a desire to recapture the moments which created emotions that you didn’t know reading could stir up.
But if you don’t read you’ll never know and will probably mock. Derision. Though you probably won’t know what that means.
There is one author who has tricked me into finishing a book on many occasions. Vladimir Nabokov is the literary Pied Piper and his novel Lolita is most definitely the best example of one of my favourite literary terms (though I hope I made it up). Nabokov is a massive offender of Literary Rape. The way he crafts sentences is utterly sublime (something I fall immeasurably short of) and can keep you reading despite the subject matter. When you break it down Lolita is a disturbing tale of a paedophile and his inner workings. Nabokov makes what you are reading an absolute joy as opposed to what could potentially be potentially blood curdling, stomach churning stuff. He led me by the hand to the end of the book. I was powerless. His writing is the only exception to my unwillingness to complete any body of text.
I will continue to read and hopefully I will got over my fear of the ending but for now I will keep on pinching book marks and stacking my ‘to-read’ pile sky-high on my bedside table. The legs on that thing are probably knackered.
searching for lee mavers 