The horrible truth is that although I wish I was so good at book reviews that publishers and authors clamored at my door like a literary Oracle, I along with many other book lovers have a regular job that demands I actually work for my money. With limited time to indulge in my one true love I sometimes get lazy and find myself reluctant to read. I know, I know, the horror but surely I can't be the only one that at the end of the day has only one thought. Get me outta these shoes! You collapse having mentally prepared a list of things to do once you can relax such as reading, taking a soak, drinking, or perhaps some YouTube only to wake up at the shrill insistence of the alarm clock that it's time to start it all over again. Ce la vie, n'est pas?
For many of us yes but when you're a bibliophile you cannot indulge in this particular laziness. Whereas the working part of your obsession is crawling along the other side of your obsession, the collector, is still working hard at making sure that you will never have a day where there is not a single book to be read any where near you. Can't afford to buy them, ARCs for all! None to be had? Well then, the opium den of any reader is your next stop, that's right, the LIBRARY.
So why I ask myself have I not been reading and editing reviews within days of each other besides the laziness? Fact is one book has basically caused a literary backup. I have been compacted by one book that I refuse to admit I do not want to read. I am struggling through this particular fiend as though across a battlefield with the last of strength left in my bruised and wounded body. I will reach the end and review it fairly if I have to etch it into my retinas. Why? Why not just admit I don't want to read the book? Or come back to it another day? Because my friend, every time I put a book down I am admitting defeat as a reader. I am saying I cannot read this, and if I am not a reader than what am I? I read, recommend, and review .... books. It is in my very fabric as a Frenchman and a wannabe scholar to absorb the written word like the nectar of the gods themselves. In my blood runs the ink of a million writers, introduced to me as a young child until my present day. I am books, breath books, and always shall be books. So what does this all mean?
I have had an epiphany, reading, even when enjoyed, is a lot of hard work. It requires commitment not only in time and energy but self awareness. That's right, you are investing in yourself when you read. You cannot read and not be self aware of your thoughts, you cannot distance yourself from what you are absorbing. And that is truly where the backup has originated, not the book itself but my reaction to facing the ink being injected into my mind. Now for some of you this will not be surprising, we all have tried to read something that made us want to throw it off a balcony but for some one who approaches reading like a much needed life action this is tantamount to self betrayal. I am plotting my own subterfuge against myself, I will refuse to find reading this book enjoyable because ...... I on an unconscious level do not like myself reflected back in its words. I have found a book that shines light into the dark crevices that can be found deep in me. I do not like to look into mirrors especially when they show so clearly my faults and weaknesses.
Therefore I am now more determined than ever to finish this book and fairly review it. It will cause me ceaseless and unfounded anxiety until I lay it to rest as DONE. So what is the purpose of this rant you ask? There is none. Merely reflections of a mad reader.
Remember. When I started this blog I did warn you that there would be moments of madness included. But count yourself lucky that you are among the gently mad in these fields. Welcome fellow reader and feel at home.
By the by, the book that I've been so fatalistic about is The Other Paris by Luc Sante. And in it I have seen reflected back the lack of my own Frenchness. Hard to take a hit to the solar plexus but there you have it. Now, what's next?
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