The Honking Goose wrote about the crap books she’s reading. I know where she’s coming from. I read a lot and some, maybe much, of what I read is crap. Sometimes I write crap too, just to contribute my fair share to the great crap heap.
Lately I’ve been finishing a lot of the books I start. It might be that I’m tracking them on Goodreads so there’s a bit of accountability (even if it’s only my own imagined accountability, I don’t think anyone else truly gives a rats bare ass if I make it through “The Old English Baron” or not). Or maybe it’s a recently acquired stubborn determination to finish things.
Although I’ve finished most of what I’ve recently read a lot of it has been slower going than I’d like. I’ve had a tough time getting started in a few works. Even “The Picture of Dorian Gray,” which I absolutely adored, and I knew that I likely would when I started, was slow going at the outset. I think a lot of the problem is that I’ve developed a resistance to being drawn into other’s narratives so it takes some time for me to fall into a story. Or maybe I’ve just become overstimulated and scatterbrained.
I also read myself as I read books (or watch TV shows or movies for that matter) and I let the words lead me off wherever I want to go, to some question I want to address for myself. It may or may not have much relation to what the author intended when he wrote what he wrote. So if I discover a lot in myself while reading a book I’m liable to think more highly of it, even if it’s crap.
In any case here’s a picture of a cover of one edition of “The Picture of Dorian Gray,” which is definitely not a crap book.