I love to read.
I belonged to a reading group years ago, which introduced me to some excellent authors I never otherwise would have been exposed to, as well as a bunch of comfortable upper middle class ladies who lunch that I’ve never seen again. I do try to read a good share of challenging, award winning books amongst my ever reliable comfort rereads, but sometimes it’s hard. The book I’m reading now is a case in point. It’s a Booker prize short listed book, in which so far everything is going wrong for a middle class Irish family. It’s intensely dispiriting the way everyone keeps sabotaging their own future. I’m only 23% of the way through according to my Kindle, and Simon is very unsympathetic. Why would you put yourself through this? What do you have to prove, and who to? It’s hard to argue. It’s a little like a car crash that it’s hard to look away from, I suppose, and there’s always the slim chance that things might work out, at least for the only single blameless person in the whole book so far – not the main protagonist, as far as I can gather, who seems a nasty piece of work. Should I be trying to challenge myself while I’m on holiday, or give up and read something I’ll actually enjoy? I guess there’s always the fear that my not enjoying these novels is a sign I’m not clever enough.
ps. No need to tell me I’ve agonised about all this before. I’m stupid, not demented.