Do you ever find that sometimes disappointment lies at the end of a “classic” novel? I do. Sometimes I don’t even make it all the way through to the end of a much-lauded book, and I wonder why the world has deemed this particular writer or that particular book to be so wonderful.
Take One Hundred Years of Solitude, for example. You might have seen it listed for the past couple of weeks in the ‘on my nightstand’ section of this blog. I bought it in California when I was there recently a trip and I gave it a few weeks of my attention. But the other night I decided to just let it go. Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s work just didn’t fill me with any interest or inspiration.
It’s so surprising. Marquez won the Nobel prize for literature, for heaven’s sake, and I couldn’t stay interested in the book long enough to finish it. A friend of ours says that this man is his favourite writer, but now I’m not inclined to give any of his other works a chance. I just don’t see the appeal.
This must be a case of me diverging from the thinking of the masses. (I’ll have to live with it!) For now, I’m on to the next book – not a classic, but so far a pretty darn good read.