I give up.
It's taken me a long time to admit it, but I've struggled on for far too long now.
About nine months ago, after a couple of months of commuting through to Edinburgh from Dundee, I decided it would be a good opportunity to get some reading done. I have about an hour in the morning and another hour in the evening every Monday to Friday, and so I thought I could use the time productively.
I'm usually more likely to watch a film or TV programme than read if I have some spare time. Although it is a completely different media, I can watch some films over and over. It’s a lean-back media where I can immerse myself in the story or reflect on the cinematography. When it comes to reading I tend to leave it for when I'm on holiday, as it can take me ages to read a book. However, I thought the concentrated time would compel me to focus more.
Spending my time reading on the train also tied in to another idea I had a while back, which was to read as many ‘modern classics’ as I could. I was happy to be selective enough, as I know I prefer certain styles and genres. I also included a few novels that possibly aren’t referred to as 'classics' by everyone, but I knew they were still well revered.
Over the last couple of years I have read:
- The Catcher in the Rye
- The Great Gatsby
- Lord of the Flies
- American Psycho
- Trainspotting
- Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
- The Road
- The Beach
- Nineteen Eighty-Four
Looking at that list, with the exception of 'The Catcher in the Rye', you can see the influence of films, so I thought I should try and begin leaning more towards books without film adaptations*. This brings me back to my opening statement, and my latest reading material, Catch-22.
I have come to hate this book. Hate is a strong word, but I have been toiling with this book for the last six months or so. At first I thought that I was possibly too tired, and I was only able to manage a chapter or two at a time. I’m sure there are many people who would shake their head at me, and give me a look of disbelief. I’m sure there are many people who love this book, and see me as some form of blasphemist for my aversion to their masterpiece.
In six months I have managed a grand total of 135 pages. It has felt like nothing but hard work. I’ve found it so confusing, with a new character appearing every couple of pages and the writing style tying my brain in knots. Perhaps I missed the point. Maybe it is all meant to reflect the madness and absurdity of the environment and the story, but it does nothing but frustrate me further. I’ve not enjoyed it, and with that is my confession; I give up.
One day I may pick it up again, but I doubt it.
My Everest