I can’t finish this book. 90 pages has taken nearly a month.
Every paragraph I read is a jumble of words that I derive no meaning out of. It
is frustrating on two accounts. One for the fact that it is considered a
classic and definitive example of magical realism and the Latin American boom
in the 60s and 70s. I want to be able to better understand this culture, to
just try to attempt to see how they interpret the world around them. Instead, I
find a muddled composition that takes no time to develop any true meaning or
connections between the characters. It’s necessarily a fragmented story
(despite its non-linearity) but rather the jumpiness doesn’t lead me to care
about or empathize with anyone.
Second, I hate not being able to finish books. It shouldn’t
matter. If an album or movie is boring, I’ll turn it off, but I still hold
literature in such a high regard. I’m Jack in The Designated Mourner, you know, before he shit on all of his
books. I’ve only done this with one other book: Catch-22. Granted, I was still in high school, just figuring out my
place in the literary world and what interests me, but that one bored me to no
end. It’s something I may be able to give another chance further down the road
though. 100 Years of Solitude
however…do I just have to admit I only like white, male authors? Not to infer
I’m racist or sexist, and especially not on any conscious level, but for every Beloved I read there are fifty Tropic of Cancers that are as compelling
to me. I’m not gonna bemoan the fact that I was granted the most privileged
birthright possible in our society (white, straight, male), but I hate to admit
the limitations that come with the territory.
So how should I react? Have I just not tried enough? Marquez
doesn’t speak for all Latin American culture. And The Savage Detectives is one of my favorite novels. Although I
certainly could live my whole life and never leave the realm of those white,
male authors that I will surely feel most comfortable reading, or at the very
least, ‘get.’ But I do like curveballs. I like being confused sometimes. I want
to read something and think ‘what the fuck?’ Just as I want to listen to
something that I’ve never listened to before and watch something through a new
perspective. Murakami is on my to-read list but I might have to rock some more
Sedaris first. Maybe it’s just a summer thing and I feel more open to reading
in the fall, the last leaves in the trees rustling outside my window, the
streetlights turning on earlier and better concentration through evening
coffee.
