Literary Philandering, Part 2

(Continued from 9/16)

...when it comes to books, I mean.

How many times have I found myself in the middle of a book, only to abandon it for the siren call of another book that catches my fancy?  Some parts of my reading history are just a series of flirtations, cast aside like the cad I apparently have become.

Sometimes, I just have reading expectations that are too ambitious.  Right now, for instance, I am reading The Kindly Ones by Jonathan Littell.  This is a novel about the Nazi final solution, told as if from the memoirs of a German SS Officer.  Tough going in the best of situations, given the subject matter and the main character, but the book is about 800 pages long, and contains what has to be some of the longest paragraphs in written history.  Seriously, in the 100 pages so far, I'd venture to guess there are less than 50 paragraphs, which is a roundabout way of saying that the paragraphs seem to average out to about two pages long.  Any dialogue is buried in these paragraphs, and let's not forget the liberal use of German military designations, which pretty much accumulate syllables like US generals get stars.

So, I slog to page 150 or so, and the books relentless brutality just does not sync well with my mood.  Life is full of its own difficulties and turmoils, so this book does not necessarily provide the comfort or escape I probably need at the moment.  I still want to read the book, really I do, but right now it just depresses me to no end.  I had a similar experience with Blood Meridian a year ago, and that book lies unfinished on my shelf as well.  The seeing other books on the side began about two weeks ago in the current case, as I would put a volume of poetry, or some short stories in the bag with the Littell book, almost like I was flaunting my infidelity.  I wandered around, rootless, for a bit, and I think I have finally given up on the book, for now.  My psyche is really not up to 800 pages of Holocaust depravity.

Today, my copy of In Search of Zarathrustra, a part travelogue, part journalistic history of the ancient Middle Eastern prophet, began to catch my gaze from across the crowded room.  We danced a bit, and I tore off the dust jacket, and read the first chapter, sort of the equivalent of a quickie in the cloakroom.  The  book sits next to me on the desk, and it's telling me to stay awhile, hang out, have a little fun.  And my mind is asking for something to help the spirit, so, I think I have ended the relationship with the Littell book, for a while at least.  I can only hope it will take me back some day.