There are books that I do not finish, but I don’t remember them. I only remember my favourite books, and those that are particularly wonderful. But I hate not finishing books. I always think that I, the reader, am at fault for not finishing them. I failed to understand the deeper themes that the book is about, or revel in the author’s way with words. It baffles me as to why people love Haruki Murakami when I do think he’s quite a self-indulgent writer. I started (and actually finished) Norwegian Wood, and I thought it was a lesson in how not to write a love story.
If that is, truly, a love story.
I have not finished books by Yukio Mishima, I think, and I almost gave up the Three Body Problem by Liu Cixin, because I don’t like hard science fiction. Or maybe it was because what he was talking about went in over my head, and most of it was a snooze fest for me. My attitude towards books is finish or bust, and I feel like I have let myself down if I don’t finish a book. In university, this would be true, especially since I had to read a lot of books I didn’t like — Hello, Kerouac, Charlotte Bronte, and Dickens — but now there are no exams, so I can choose what to read and what not to read.
I didn’t let go of this habit for a while, which made for dreary morning commutes. It got so bad that I started avoiding reading the book, so I knew it was finally time to get rid of this silly, rigid habit and just put down the insipid read. Life is too stressful to read what you don’t like, after all.
So now I’m reading the books that I wanted to read as a child or a teenager, that I’ve missed out on. I’m also reading books by authors that I like most of the time. I’m reading about subjects that I’m interested in, and I will continue to read what I want to read. It is one of the greatest freedoms I have. What I want to read may not always be popular, well-liked, or taken as serious by the people who make up the canon, but who cares.
As long as one enjoys reading, that is enough.