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The other day, I began reading a book I had been greatly anticipating, which has been earmarked for great things in the publishing world. I’m not going to name the book because it is brilliantly written, and one might infer this as a criticism when it is not, and I think people should buy it. But, part of the premise of the book is about a woman who is in a long marriage with kids.
The narration of this relationship, which has long since drifted into dull convenience and a bland sex life, is beautifully done. I can sense the tiredness, the complacency. The initial wonder that existed at the beginning of it forever gone, about to be replaced by something exciting in the plot.
But the more I read, the more I felt uncomfortable, an itch beneath the skin. And then, I realised that I didn’t want to continue reading. I closed the book and put it into the book purgatory under my bedside table.
But, but, but, a part of me said. This is the part of me that is a thirsty little creep that wants to consume things for relevance, in order to be able to fit in at social occasions. The part of me that wants to say with shiny eyes, wow, wasn’t that book a revelation? when I don’t remotely feel that way, but I want to seem edgy and in touch.
The book remained closed because a while ago, I’d decided life was too short to force feed myself books. I’m 43, and I’ve lived long enough to know when I want to continue with something. Rarely – perhaps a couple of times – have I pushed through in order to be delighted and proven wrong.
But this isn’t about book reading habits, it’s about the content of it, and what I found so hard to look at, and what I realised was this.
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