The English Patient.
It that book. That one book that I just cannot bring myself to finish. I have triedâ€”many times, too many to count, even. The writing is lovely and lyrical, sure, but, well, every time I sit down with the book in hands, it’s like suddenly I’m Elaine Benes.
I can’t do this any more. I can’t. It’s too long.Â Quit telling your stupid story about the stupid desert, and just die already! DIE!
There’s way too much non-activity on those pages for my taste. My mind wanders and I find myself doing things other than readingâ€”my taxes, filling my car up with gas, unloading the dishwasher, flossing, talking to telemarketers, eating olives. You know, all the things I love to do. I apologize a thousand times over to Michael Ondaatje, as I’m sure he’s a lovely, lovely (and smart!) person. I just…can’t.
The English Patient, for me, is the exception, not the rule. Typically, even if I don’t like the book that I’m reading, I follow through and finish, no matter how much I hate it. I have hopes that it will get better! I know it! Just a few more pages! It has to pick up steam!
Also, I’m stubborn.
But there’s another book in my life that may just be going the way of the poor English patient.
Back onto the bookshelf.
I have tried. So so hard.
I have read over 200 pages. I keep picking it back up. It’s going to get better. SOMETHING is going to happen. I’m going to like it. The short, disjointed stories are going to come together. There will be an AHA MOMENT! There will be one single character that I actually care about.
Only, there’s nothing.
I wonder what Elaine Benes would think of this one.
Please please please tell me I’m not the only one. Have you ever quit on a book?