books that kicked my ass...

Let me preface this by admitting I am an English Literature major with, unfortunately, a wicked case of A.D.D. and a predilection for short stories. However...

Certain "classics" sit neglected on my bookshelf and taunt me for my inability to conquer them in a timely manner, if at all. And thanks to recent comments by one of the most well-read souls on the planet (you know who you are), I am reminded yet again of James Joyce's continued ability to kick my ass.

I usually try every year in mid-June to trudge through Ulysses. I get a few pages into it before my eyelids droop. [Strike one.] Sometimes, for variety, I'll heed the suggestions of readers who actually finished it and skip the first hundred pages before losing interest and tossing it aside. [Strike two.] Once I tried reading the last few pages first, in true pessimist style (think Billy Crystal's Harry telling Sally he always does that because, if he dies, he'll know how the story ends) until I realized the last 45 pages are a mind-numbing stream-of-consciousness blur without a single punctuation mark. The grammar grouch in me then went into convulsions and my eyes started to twitch. [Strike three.]

I want to love this book. I want to savor this book like a vintage single malt but every attempt leaves me feeling hungover. Not even David Foster Wallace's countless footnotes annoy me like this book does. I concede: after seven tries and seven forfeits, James Joyce wins, hands down.

But Ulysses is not alone on the bookshelf of mockery. Oh no, it has stellar company. At the risk of revealing the depths of my ignorance (while possibly committing heinous acts of literary blasphemy), I hereby admit to page-skimming and/or altogether dismissing the following "great" works, for which I expect to be summarily stoned outside the city walls at daybreak as a philistine:

1. James Joyce - Ulysses. 'Nuff said.
2. Herman Melville - Moby Dick. I love the sea and I love a good nautical yarn. But this thing bored me to tears. Tried it in junior high and never bothered a second attempt. Must admit, though, Queequeg is one of the best character names ever, right up there with Aphra Behn's Oroonoko.
   
3. Joseph Conrad - Lord Jim. Another high-seas tale that lured me in, mainly because I wanted to know Jim's last name. Got halfway through without enlightenment before giving up. Based on that experience, I never even attempted Heart of Darkness.
   
4. Marcel Proust - Swann's Way. I have tried this one on numerous occasions. My bookmark shows the last attempt ended on page 51. Perhaps another go is in order, although I fear that if I complete it, I would have no written cure for insomnia. Proust cures sleeplessness better than Ambien...
   
5. W. Somerset Maugham - Of Human Bondage. Damn, this thing is so bloody depressing; it should come with free samples of Prozac. Have zero regrets about not finishing it...
   
6. William Makepeace Thackeray - Vanity Fair. Epic satire. Unrequited love. War. Europe. Poor, determined woman with an agenda. I should have loved this, but for whatever reason, I never finished it...
7. John Steinbeck - Grapes of Wrath. Depression-era sharecroppers in California didn't appeal to me. It may be a classic, but I lost interest. Same with Cannery Row and The Pearl. Yawn...
8. William Faulkner - As I Lay Dying. Even my southern heritage cannot inspire appreciation for Faulkner, much to my mother's chagrin. This is one of her faaayv'rites, shug. Seriously, I couldn't be from a more southern family: Mom comes from Alabama ("a fur piece" in Faulkner-esque), Dad was born in Mississippi and his family hails from New Orleans & Memphis, for cryin' out loud. It's a wonder I didn't exit the womb with a damn Confederate flag already tattooed on my ass, begging to be weaned on sweet tea. But holy hell... Faulkner makes me want to pull my hair out and scream. I can almost smell cornbread and feel the south's oppressively stagnant summer humidity after only a few pages. Although I love other southern writers (O'Connor, Welty, Styron, Gurganus) I simply cannot muster any love for Faulkner. Y'all can just shoot me now, thankyouverymuch.

I can hear it now: "How could you not love (insert title here)?" Go ahead, chastise away. To my credit, I have read and enjoyed a great many classics that didn't suck. Anna Karenina. War and Peace. Madame Bovary. Beowulf. The Inferno. The Iliad. The Odyssey. The Great Gatsby. Fahrenheit 451. Catch-22. Lord of the Flies. Those held me rapt, start to finish. To my further credit, I sometimes give second chances to once-dismissed books. But the older I get, the more selective I become when choosing titles for reconsideration. Perhaps I shouldn't be so hasty in dismissing the disliked books of my youth (or youthful ignorance). Or perhaps I'll just become an English teacher so I can inflict the same torture on tomorrow's youth. Yep, payback's a bitch.