Discouraging Words

I'm beginning to wonder if college ruined (or at least maimed) my capacity for enjoying literature. I have heard music majors say school destroyed their ability to just enjoy music, because now all they can do is analyze and critique, judge as they listen. Music became mechanical and fundamental, no longer really about art and indulgence. I don't think this is quite the case with me, but I do wonder sometimes. Am I being too judgmental, too critical? Am I allowing my own preferences and opinions to masquerade as some artificial and unsubstantiated apex of literary perfection? In other words, am I becoming an insufferable literary snob?

I do my best to "not judge a book by its cover." And I mean that literally, as well as in the time-old, tired metaphoric sense. When I was young I came to realize that the best books weren't always the ones with the most colorful, appealing covers. Some of my favorites turned out to be the cloth-bound volumes tucked away in the back of the library's reading room. (A particularly large, red, cloth-bound copy of The Secret Garden comes to mind, especially, with its simple gold script.) And throughout my reading career, I have always been driven to finish every book I've started, no matter how bad it seems at first, or how long it takes to get through. (The one notable exception to this being Charles Dickens. I've tried to enjoy him, but every single book of his that I've started, I have been unable to finish, including but not limited to Great Expectations, Oliver Twist, Bleak House, A Tale of Two Cities, and Nicholas Nickleby.) Even if someone "ruins" the ending for me by telling me what happens in the end, I can't help but finish it for myself, partly because I think I've always known that a book is not just about finding out what happens. The truly exciting part is discovering the characters and worlds created by the author.

Lately, however, it seems this no longer applies to the books I read. The only thing that keeps me reading is to see how it ends. The last three books I read have been disappointingly...well, disappointing. The characters were dull and unchanging, the setting was tired and boring (and in some cases blatantly copied from earlier, better books), and the writing itself was downright painful at times. Let me tell you, reading just to see what happens is tiring and not very enjoyable, especially when the tiny spark of hope that it will get better flickers harder with each dry sentence and predictable plot device.

I guess I'm thinking about this more than usual, mainly because I've been thinking I should start a second blog, solely dedicated to reviews of the books I read. Not because I think everyone should listen to my opinions and take them as their own, but because my brain is desperately begging to be challenged and do some critical thinking. I've actually already created this blog; I've just yet to post anything. I'd like to start with a good review, but at the rate I'm going, it seems that everything I post will be negative and critical. That doesn't sound fun to me. That's just not the kind of blogger I want to be. It makes me feel like a snobbish, "better than thou," jerk.

But at the same time, I guess blogging is sort of intrinsically self-centered and egotistical. So maybe I should just push forward and spread my opinions to the far ends of the worlds. After all, in the words of the ever-wise Dr. Seuss, "Those who matter don't mind, and those who mind don't matter."