Even as the world is slowly but steadily disintegrating around us, we turn to our personal cope strategies just to survive each day. Me, I turn to books, try to lose myself in that world of make-believe. But of late, I seem to have lost all desire to plough through books that do not hold, or quickly lose, my attention and interest.
There are people who pick up a book, skim through the blurbs, study the jacket illustration, glance through the first few pages, then decide the book is/isn’t for them, and either buy it or pass.
I envy that lot. Because I usually pick a read after much deliberation, less influenced by the blurbs than the synopsis, at times intrigued by the cover but ultimately falling back on what I know of the author. Then I start the read. Sometimes, by Chapter Two I know it’s a turkey but I hang on with grim determination till I reach the last page, hoping to mine what seem pretty well-hidden gems.
Long years of intent reading (and reviewing) have shown me that sometimes one gets to the meat of the matter only after a quarter of the book is read. While I still firmly hold onto that creed when I read for review, I find I am fast losing my patience with books I read for pleasure. Unwittingly, I’m applying the formerly famous ‘Mari Kondo method’: no more plodding through these joyless objects. If it doesn’t work for me after I’m 40 pages down, that’s it, I’m done, and I put it aside, to donate to the neighbourhood library or exchange it for a discount at my favourite bookstore.
What’s more, I’m also losing my patience with authors who take forever to get to the point; authors whose point, in the end, is less than impressive; authors who fall back on gimmickry, vulgarity or sensationalism in a move to cover their shortcomings. Bad grammar is an immediate deal-breaker, so is a boring story. Dashitall, life really is too short to waste on bad books.
It’s all very subjective, of course. I struggle with a tome that describes Lahore at the turn of the last century in what to me is excruciating detail. The much lauded book does not speak to me. Earlier, I’d have plodded through all 450 pages. Now, I put it away and pick up a travelogue by Patrick Leigh Fermor. The typeface is uncomfortably small, the book was written 45 years ago and guess what, this book too consists of 450 pages. But within minutes, I’m deep in the countryside beside the swift-flowing Danube with this wonderful travel writer, trekking alongside him every step of the way.
To paraphrase what the writer Amitava Kumar said, a good book should help us navigate the contemporary moment. I agree but would like to add a caveat: it should help us navigate the moment artfully.
Of course, my newly-minted impatience with mediocre writing means I have narrowed my slot considerably, and this is creating consternation in my book club. And, once in a while, I do feel a pang: have I let an absolute gem go by, lost to quick judgement and condemnation? What about you? Do you plod through bad books or swiftly chuck them aside? I’d love to know.