my give up

Only once in my entire life have I set down a book unfinished.  That occasion was during my surgery rotation in medical school when I tried to read a John Grisham novel, thinking that something less stimulating might be preferred during a time of great physical and emotional stress.  The Rainmaker was so paint-by-number and terrible that despite my best attempt at intellectual fortitude, I had to stop.

Well, (and for the exact opposite reasons) it's happened again.  Umberto Eco, the semiotic assassin, has defeated me!  For three months I tried to slog through Foucault's Pendulum, not even reaching the half way point.  What the hell was it about besides unnecessarily symbolic names and Knights Templar?!  Why all the side stories in South America?!  I get it, you think mystical cults are ludicrous and devoid of substance!  I get it, you are the anti-Dan Brown!  But why did the book have to be 640 pages?!!!!  Why couldn't you just tell a beautiful and exciting story like The Name of the Rose?!  I've survived Thomas Pynchon novels before, but never have I encountered such esoteric, directionless prose.*  My cerebral cortex is wounded; my heart torn in two.

The scorecard: Eco 1, Shaftacular 1.

You and I have a date in Prague at a time of my choosing, Umberto.  Winner take all.

 

*I have always avoided David Foster Wallace because I am married with children.