Finishing Books

I’m not a compulsive person. But I do have one compulsion. I have to finish any book I start. It doesn’t matter how much I hate what I’m reading. With one exception, I’ve finished every book I’ve ever started. Usually, that includes the introductions and appendices and acknowledgements and things like that, too. When I read a book, I really read the book.

I have truly hated some of the books I’ve read. Moby Dick was one of those. I deeply, passionately hate that book. But I read it cover to cover. The Hunger Games is another. I recently read a book called Feline Philosophy that was terrible, but I read the whole thing. Oh, and don’t get me started on Emile. It might just be the worst thing I’ve ever read, but read it I did. In fact, I think I’ve read Rousseau’s entire corpus and there was not a redeeming word in there.

I’ve also read my share of books that bored me to tears. The Chronicles of Narnia falls in this category. It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t good. It was just kind of there. It’s the Wonder Bread of books. The Stranger is another one of those.

I mentioned earlier that there’s one exception. And it eats at me. That exception is Ulysses by Joyce. I’ve tried several times to read it. Each time, I get about 200 pages in and just can’t get any farther. I don’t know why. I’ve read and enjoyed books like Native Son and The Bluest Eye that are thematically more difficult. I loved The Sound and the Fury, which is structurally more difficult. I’ve read and loved The Odyssey, so I know the source material. It’s a mystery. Maybe I’ll try again. I’m pretty certain it will end up in my hated or bored by categories, but at least I’ll have finished it.

I don’t recommend being like me in this respect. Reading is supposed to be fun. If you’re not having fun, by all means, stop reading and find something that is fun. I sometimes wish I could do that.