I have a policy.
If I’m reading a book, which are at about a standard of 300 pages, give or take, and I find myself about one-third of the way through with no real emotion or curiosity for the rest, I put it down. I let it go. It may sound fickle, but there are So Many Books and So Little Time. Obviously, I’ll give consideration if a book is 700 pages long, and if it’s less than 200 I’ll probably finish it at any rate, having only lost between 1-3 hours on it.
I am (was) reading two books, and feel nothing for them.
The first one is, as I mentioned in a previous blog post, The Black Death by John Hatcher. As I mentioned before, it’s very dry, and distant, with very little character development. Now, it’s a history, mostly, and I really like reading flat-out history texts, so I didn’t think that would bother me terribly.
But here’s the thing. The full title of the novel is The Black Death: A Personal History. There’s a five(ish) page preface which is pretty much just Hatcher ranting about how this isn’t just a flat-out history text, and that he wanted to get a story involved. That there had been enough histories written.
Mr. John Hatcher, you have failed. I’m sorry. I’m over 100 pages in, and the facts are great, and the details of how this one tiny English village related to the rest of the world is just splendid, but everyone knows all of that already. I am over 100 pages in and I. do. not. care. who. lives. or. dies. And when there are actual, real characters involved, you sort of have to care.
In sum, it’s not a novel. It’s a strong history, a weak story, and I couldn’t tell you the first thing about any of the characters involved. So I quit.
The second book on my I Don’t Give a Damn list is An Arsonist’s Guide to Writer’s Homes in New England by Brock Clarke.
I wanted to like this. I wanted to like this soooo bad. The title is clever, and it is not a metaphor. The author’s name is Brock Clarke. Brock fucking Clarke. That’s up there with Chuck Norris. The narrative is clever, it’s witty, it’s a really great picture of a washed-up guy who made some mistakes and is turning his life around, it’s a really fresh look at the idiosyncrasies of suburbian life.
But I’ve read this book before. It was called A Dirty Job by Christopher Moore, except Arsonist’s Guide lacks all of the fantasy, and… well, okay, the death thing. But mostly the fantasy. And the readability.
It tries way too hard. It feels like it’s going for the joke. There is so much crammed into one long, whining paragraph that it’s more funny if you skip half of it. It wants to feel incidental and hap-hazard and it kind of does but not in the good way. It just feels sad, and you’re constantly embarrassed for this guy, not in a “NO DON’T GO IN THERE” way or a “YOU DIDN’T JUST SAY THAT” way, but a “OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE YES I’VE HEARD THIS BEFORE NO I PROMISE I GET IT PLEASE STOP” way.
It’s on the nose, and the whole point was to be tongue-in-cheek, which is a completely different part of the human face.
So I quit.
Next time! Brisingr by Christopher Paolini! Would have done it this time! But it really didn’t fit the theme of the post! Because I like it!