One of the nice things about not having a big reading goal this year is that I don’t feel compelled to finish a book I don’t care for. There were a few I abandoned last year, but because I really wanted to get to 100 books, I usually just soldiered through the unpleasant bits.
Not so, this year. This year, I can give up on whatever book isn’t interesting me after page thirty or so.
Sadly, that has been all three of the books I’ve started thus far. One of them, a book about math and physics is understandable as math is definitely not my strong suit. Another was a book of essays about writers, which I thought would be fascinating, and turned out to be something else (superbly written, but ultimately, not fascinating), and the third was a brief history of London, wherein the author gave the impression that he thought modern London was a sad old city full of nothing but nasty tourists. Historic London, he seemed to say, has been disgraced and forgotten because tourists want to see the historical sites.
Given that I’m going to be a tourist in London (or, perhaps, a traveler?), I’m not terribly keen on reading a book where the author thinks I’m the worst thing to happen to his native city. I’m not that terrible of a person.
Perhaps I’ve been unlucky in my books so far this year. Maybe it’s just a literary hangover from reading incessantly in 2013. I think I’ll dive back into The Lord of the Rings, and see if I can cure myself of this. . . whatever this is.