I pride myself on only one thing: I read a lot of books, and I always have. Also, that’s a lie. I totally pride myself all over the place for other things like being able to remember everything Tracy Jordan has ever said and tying a knot in a cherry stem with my tongue and alphabetizing and cataloguing and making lists and also other stuff. So whatever, I’m a liar. But the point remains. I read a lot of books. I was such an asshole about it in my earlier years that I would regularly do things like ignore my sister and make her cry because I was reading, and my mom was always yanking books out of my hands to get me to do chores (this was before I discovered TV), and my favorite personal anecdote, how I would go over to friends’ houses and ignore them in favor of examining their bookshelves. Luckily, most of them were cool and didn’t stop being friends with me.

Anyway, back when my brain was still growing and developing and all that young people stuff my ability to read books was just phenomenally weird. I never got tired of it. Never. I would read stuff everywhere because if I didn’t read stuff I might die. I would read anything, and as a first sign of the slight OCD I would develop in later life, I always, always finished what I was reading, good or bad. As a result of this long formed habit, there have been only five books in my entire life that I have not finished because I just couldn’t do it anymore. I bring this up now because I am angry that the very first book I ever consciously put down and decided not to finish — a monumental step, I assure you — I am now being forced to read. I had planned on avoiding it for the rest of my life, and I don’t even remember why I hated it so much, I just remember the hate. Burning, seething. Resentment. I put down James Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man at the pinnacle of my high school career, during which my personality can only be described as “panicked,” “type-A,” and “perfectionist,” (qualities that soon disappeared in college as I lost THE FEAR, THE FEAR being the thing crucial to getting all of your work done in a timely and efficient manner). I was in the IB program, if that means anything to you. It was Hell, but it made college so easy.

Whatever. The point of this whole thing is that I wanted to share with you the only five books that have ever failed me, or that made me fail myself, however you prefer to look at it. They are life ruiners.

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A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, James Joyce
Penguin, 1916

Junior year of high school, 2001. My teacher of two years, Mrs. Prather, writes one word on the board: “Bildungsroman.” It’s a funny word, and I would later come to know it well, but for at least three years all it made me think of was this awful book. It has the word “dung” hidden inside of it, but it’s really just a fancy word for a coming of age story. Harry Potter is a bildungsroman. So is Jane Eyre, David Copperfield, To Kill a Mockingbird, and The Aeneid. You should read all of those before you read this book. It is full of asshole. If anyone ever tries to make me read Ulysses (Joyce’s famously obtuse and obnoxiously overlarge “masterpiece”), I will shoot them in the testicle. Anyway, this book was a turning point in my life. It was the first time I realized that I didn’t have to read something if I really didn’t want to.

On Beauty, Zadie Smith
Penguin, 2005

This book is everything I dislike about contemporary fiction and contemporary writers. It’s all words, all brains, and absolutely no soul. The whole time I was reading I felt like Zadie Smith was just trying to impress me or suck up to me or something, except she wasn’t being very smart about it. She was all, LOOK AT MY SNOOTY METAPHOR, IS NOT IT PERFECTION? And I was like, no, you suck and I’m putting your book down and going to read something that wasn’t written for and by somebody who probably thinks that they are too good for Harry Potter. Well, you know what, smart literary ladypants? HARRY POTTER IS TOO GOOD FOR YOU. And yes, I realize this is the second time I have used Harry Potter in an explanation, but I can’t help it. It’s part of my philosophy.

The Names, Don Delillo
Knopf, 1982

Basically, you should just copy and paste my explanation for On Beauty and make it fit this book, except I have some things to add. A lot of “literary” types today think that by adding Europe or the Middle East or European/Middle Eastern intrigue to their books, that makes them “good” and “worthwhile.” Those people are idiots. You could have all the best ingredients in the world but if you mix them together wrong, or if you add too much of one thing (asshole) and not enough of another (humanity, emotion, humor, other good things) your book is going to suck donkey balls, like this one did. I’m surprised I even got as far as page 112, but I was being very stubborn that week. The professor (P.S. I’d forgotten he said all those things. Those were the good ole days) who assigned this book for me to read disappointed me very much by liking it, and blah blah blah Don Delillo wrote White Noise or whatever and blah blah blah IDON’TCARE.

Catch-22, Joseph Heller
Simon & Schuster, 1961

This one is really my fault; I tried to read it during the summer. In college. It felt too much like homework and I got bored and I decided I wanted to read Hitchhiker’s Guide instead, and you know what? That was a good decision. Everybody was all, “Oh, you’ll love Catch-22, it’s so funny!” Even my sister, for Pete’s sake, and she doesn’t even like to read. So, what’s my deal? I have no idea. I even tried to pick it up a couple more times, but I think there’s like a gasket loose in there somewhere that makes me put it down again. I think it’s because I have to be a certain mood for satire, because the only emotions in satire are humor and anger, and while I like humor, I usually like it to be accompanied by joy and love and puppies so . . . whatever. I have issues. (But you knew that.)

Unidentified YA Novel Mother Bought Me at the Bookfair in 1997, ?
?,?

I lied a little bit before when I told you that Joyce was the first author I ever put down and didn’t finish, but I also didn’t lie, because my real first wasn’t intentional. I just forgot about it. In fact, I forgot almost everything about it, including the title, the author, and what it was about. That’s how I know it sucked. The only, ONLY things I remember about it are these: 1) There was a red-headed angry urchin child on the cover; 2) She was wearing gloves and had crazy hair, kinda like this, and 3) It probably took place in an orphanage. I vaguely remember putting it down because the main character was so angry and I was all I DO NOT want to hang out with you, so goodbye. And I didn’t look back (until two days ago, when my futile Google search began, and I started typing idiotic things in the search bar like “red haired girl book cover YA,” “red headed orphan, “why isn’t this working?” “Why can’t I find you?” and “I hate you, Google”. Obviously, didn’t work.)

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So, am I alone in this? Are there books that you refused to finish on principle? Out of anger? For some unknown reason that was probably your fault? Please, share with me. I’ll bring the cookies.