Following on from my series of 10 Books I’ve Loved I now bring you 10 Books I Hated or Can’t Read

Some of these I’ve read and didn’t like, some were destroyed for me by school, and some I’ve tried and just couldn’t get to grips with despite wanting to.

Rather than spread this across 10 days, one book per day, I’m posting this in two posts, each of five books, a few days apart. Also (because I want to) I’m going to provide a short commentary on why I found each book so difficult. This is part two.

In each part I’m nominating three people to produce their own list, in any way they like – just leave a comment here with a link to yours. The second three are: Sophie Clissold-Lesser, Nick Birns, Gabriella Walfridson. Of course anyone else is welcome to sing along!

Leo Tolstoy; War and Peace

I tried reading this, from choice, in my teens. I failed. I could not get into it and couldn’t identify with it as nothing seemed to happen in slow motion. Oh and there was too much of it.

Thomas Hardy; The Mayor of Casterbridge

This is another that was destroyed for me by being flogged through it at school. I detested it so much that I remember almost nothing about it.

Haruki Murakami; The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

I’ve tried to read this two or three times, but I’ve had to give up each time as for some reason I find it depressing, with the prospect that it gets worse as you go on. I’m told it isn’t like that, but that’s what it does to me. I’ve also found this with the other bits of Murakami I’ve tried, so it’s likely something about the way either his subject matter or his style work on me. It’s a shame as there’s something I still find intriguing here.

Charles Dickens; A Christmas Carol

Yet one more destroyed by school, and on every encounter since. I find it (as I find almost all Dickens) dark, disturbing, depressing … and tedious. The only Dickens I’ve ever tried and enjoyed is Pickwick Papers.

James Joyce; Ulysses

My parents had an early copy of Ulysses – it may even have been the original contraband Paris edition – so I read it in my mid-teens. To this day I don’t know why I bothered. WTF is it on about? Whatever it is made no sense at all. Even the Hardy and Dickens I so hate at least make some sense. I have a suspicion that Joyce is just taking the gullible for a ride.

Later in the year I hope to follow on with at least one further, similar, theme: I already have Books I Found Influential / Formative lined up. (Yes, that’s different to Books I’ve Loved.) There may be others.