Books I Never Finished

I’m a pretty masochistic reader. I’m willing to slog through hundreds of pages of self-indulgent prose to experience the occasional dazzling insight. I’m attracted to literary fireworks, to writers who say screw editors, to books with a thousand disparate plotlines that may or may not intersect.

But sometimes my attention span falters or my ardor vanishes and I find myself shamefully setting a doorstop-sized book aside, bookmark in place, with the intention of finishing it someday. Really. I swear.

Here are my three biggest failures:

1. Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clark

Set in an alternate 19th-century England where magic is real and practiced by the scholarly Norrell, this novel tells the story of his touchy relationship with the powerful young magician Jonathan Strange. It’s a slow-burning, immersive tale complete with pseudo-academic footnotes on the history and application of magic. I got about two-thirds of the way through before the affected Austenesque prose started to run together.

Sorry, Ms. Clark. I wholeheartedly commend your effort and dedication to your craft, and I’m glad so many other people have found it compelling and interesting. I wish you the best. I just hate Jane Austen.

2. Moby Dick by Herman Melville

I “had” to read this in “college”. First of all, I had the shittiest possible edition of the book, a cheap used paperback with size 2 font and newsprint pages. If I had the Penguin Classics edition I probably would’ve gotten more than halfway through. In any case, the band Mastodon saved me from a re-read with the release of their 2004 album Leviathan, which is sort of a concept album about Moby Dick. Thanks, Mastodon! You guys should write an album about Finnegans Wake, too.

3. Against the Day by Thomas Pynchon

I love Thomas Pynchon more than any other living author except for maybe George RR Martin, who is writing something so monumental in the world of fantasy that it seems silly to compare him with any other kind of writer. Anyway, Gravity’s Rainbow is a permanent member of my top five books, and I have fond memories of V. So I was obviously drooling and shivering with excitement in the fall of 2006, when it was suddenly announced that holy shit, a huge new Pynchon book is imminent.

I bought the hardcover ($35.00!) the day it came out, lugged it home for Thanksgiving, and dove in.

Two years and two aborted attempts later, my bookmark has stalled at page 297. I’m obviously filled with anxiety and self-loathing about the fact that I can’t even force myself to enjoy what is in all probability the last great big monster Pynchon novel (he’s 71). But to be brutally honest, it’s just kind of… flat. I blame the setting. Gravity’s Rainbow was a novel of comparably intimidating scope, but it had the coolest setting ever: Postwar Europe. Chaos. Intrigue. One zany adventure after another.

Against the Day is set mostly in the late 19th/early 20th century American West, with a few exotic detours thrown in. I’m sure some people relish immersing themselves in such an under-fictionalized time and place, but I just don’t feel any sort of connection to it. The whole book feels like it’s set against a blank white screen. Sure, there are some breathtaking setpieces, but not enough to keep me coming back for more.

Addendum – Books I own but will probably never read:

Howards End by E.M. Forster
Sons and Lovers by D.H. Lawrence
Crossing to Safety by Wallace Stegner