I’m rubbish at reading. Well, I’m not rubbish at reading – I can read quite well, and reasonably fast. Though not as fast as ‘Freak Eyes’ Anna, my darling girlfriend. She could read War and Peace in about 20 minutes, such is the speed of her eye-to-brain-to-comprehension mind-matrix. BUT! I mean this as in I am rubbish at the process of actually sitting down with a book and reading it.
When I get going, fine – it’s generally going to get read. Unless it’s shit. Or unless it’s Naked Lunch, in which case it’s just going to take me about four months to force myself through it and not enjoy it*. But I have a box over <– there somewhere full of books, about 75 per cent of which have never even been opened.
I suppose it falls back to my other commitment issues which I hilariously covered ages ago, in that I find it very hard to start something new. Once it’s up and running, fine – but it’s that initial push that I just can’t give myself a lot of the time.
Anyway, I was prompted to write this shocking confession because there’s a copy of Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian sat right next to me. It’s only been here a week, but I can just tell it will be here next week, and the week after and not get touched. Either that or I’ll just move it.
I am, as they say, ‘a bit of a nong’.
*Anyone who says they enjoy or understand this book is an idiot, a liar or possibly both.