Quitting a book you aren’t enjoying is one of the few unspoiled pleasures of adult life. For the past few years, as I’ve tallied up the books I’ve read and compared it against those I’ve quit or set aside, I realize that by abandoning those books I conclude aren’t for me, I’ve opened myself up to happier reading experiences in general. Time spent with a book is, of course, different from that spent with a film. I’ve muscled through several films I wound up disliking in order to have a better understanding of them as a whole, knowing that at most I’d be setting aside about two hours for them. A book, though, can spend weeks on your nightstand.1 Accordingly, this year I thought it worth breaking out the list of books I encountered in 2015 into separate lists: those I finished, and those that, for whatever reason, I didn’t.
Silver Screen Fiend: Learning About Life From an Addiction to Film, Patton Oswalt (2015): Most comedians who excel on stage aren’t able to find similar success in prose, and Oswalt is, unfortunately, no exception. But his latest book is still a breezy, fun read, the kind that can be plowed through in an afternoon or evening, and his observations about the cultural battle between two broad definitions of comedy (crowd-pleasing versus introspective) are astute and hard-earned.
Love Dishonor Marry Die Cherish Perish, David Rakoff (2013): A novel constructed in meter would have to be brief to avoid turning gimmick into obstacle, and Rakoff’s slender book is the perfect length. The best section: when he dives into the mind of a man in a coma, haunted by his memory.
A Prayer for Owen Meany, John Irving (1989): One of the best books I read all year, and my first Irving. I have fuzzy memories of Simon Birch, the 1998 film loosely adapted, but they’re vague enough (and the film reportedly different enough from its source material) that I didn’t have anything to interfere with my experience of the book’s story and themes. I picked it up on a whim at the public library and fell into a world of bruised but yearning faith, and a sprawling, heartfully messy plot about childhood and love and death and the things that haunt all of us all of our lives. It wrapped its hand around mine and did not let go.
The Magician’s Land, Lev Grossman (2014): A worthy and energetic end to Grossman’s trilogy — begun with The Magicians and The Magician King — but still a little airy in parts. I can never shake the feeling that the first book in the series was the story the author really wanted to tell, and everything that’s happened since is more of a fun “what if” extension of that initial, most powerful volume.
Bird Box, Josh Malerman (2015): A post-apocalyptic thriller I can barely remember months later. The hook was that some kind of madness or disease wipes out most of the population, and people catch the disease by seeing its effects and going mad. The good guys hang in there by the end, I think.
Annihilation, Jeff Vandermeer (2014): The first and best volume of Vandermeer’s Southern Reach trilogy, about government efforts to investigate a supernatural, sealed-off area along an unnamed2 (but, I believe, Floridian) coast. This book reads like a modern update to Lovecraft, and the trilogy could have ended here and no one would’ve been the wiser or poorer.
Station Eleven, Emily St. John Mandel (2014): Of the many post-apocalyptic books out there right now, this is one of the best and most moving I’ve read. The end of the world is a popular topic in fiction in an era when nothing seems to be going right and national interests are giving way to personal ones. Mandel keeps the focus on the characters, though, instead of getting lost in the math. A hopeful, authentic experience.
Authority, Jeff Vandermeer (2014): Book two of Vandermeer’s trilogy is, like a lot of sequels, a little softer than its predecessor but not without its own merits. The best thing about it is that it moves the location of the story from inside the supernatural region to the bureaucratic, politically oppressive office that investigates it.
Acceptance, Jeff Vandermeer (2014): Book three feels like a checklist being dutifully worked through: flashbacks for you, and you, and you, and here we are.
Love Me Back, Merritt Tierce (2014): Outstanding, stunning, wrenching, engaging, truthful, powerful, every other superlative you can think of in that vein. Hits like a hammer and doesn’t stop.
The Steady Running of the Hour, Justin Go (2014): I couldn’t shake the vibe that this novel about World War I seemed reverse-engineered just to coincide with the centennial of the war’s beginning. It’s a treasure hunt/history lesson of sorts, but emotionally a little dense, and I started skimming about halfway through.
Alys, Always, Harriet Lane (2012): A solid little psychological thriller about a woman who worms her way into a widower’s life. Eerie for what we never find out about her, or what drives her.
Lucky Alan and Other Stories, Jonathan Lethem (2015): I like to stay up with Lethem, though nothing of his has ever connected with me the way The Fortress of Solitude did. Maybe that was our only time to be in sync.
The Girl on the Train, Paula Hawkins (2015): I finished it out of sheer spite and will. Characters and plot became laughable, and the mystery doubly so.
In Persuasion Nation, George Saunders (2006): Saunders should be canonized, taught in schools, and given his own holiday.
The Last Wish, Andrzej Sapkowski (1993/2007): I spent a serious amount of time this year playing The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, which might be one of the best video games I’ve ever played. I became so attached to the fictional world that I picked up this volume of short stories that created the character. They’re enjoyable fantasy tales, and pleasingly unpredictable.
Purity, Jonathan Franzen (2015): This apt line from the L.A. Review of Books keeps ringing in my ears: “The Corrections was prescient and Freedom timely, but Purity arrives into a literary world already dated.” There’s definitely a sense of remove in the book that likely comes from Franzen’s professed disdain for digital life and communications. The largest character in it — a hacktivist modeled after Julian Assange — also feels like its thinnest and least relatable. Conversely, the section that deals with the young, doomed marriage of two other characters, structured as novella written by the man, is the strongest. Go figure.
Some Luck, Jane Smiley (2014): The first volume in Smiley’s trilogy of American life in the 20th century3 was both gentle and profound. Each chapter covers a year in the life of the Langdons, starting in 1920, and that structure allows Smiley to start piling on the years like weights on a scale. The effect, after thirty-odd years of narrative, is of watching a river carve its bed out of the rock.
We the Animals, Justin Torres (2011): A grim, quick-shot novel about rough childhoods and decaying families. I don’t regret reading it per se, but have zero plans to revisit.
Left by the Wayside
Swann’s Way, Marcel Proust (transl. Lydia Davis) (1913): My weakness4 is my pride in my sense of what I should be reading, or should have read. The latest case in point: this gorgeous and evocative volume of the first book of Proust’s In Search of Lost Time, which I found moving and beautiful but eventually just sort of drifted away from by February. I’m not resigned to defeat, though.
The Abominable, Dan Simmons (2013): I liked The Terror quite a bit — ditto Summer of Night — but I lost interest in this thriller about mountain climbers who wind up facing threats from a yeti. (At least, that’s where it was heading when I checked out.) I realize I liked the straight-ahead thrills more than the awkward attempt at involving the supernatural.
The Troop, Nick Cutter (2014): A Lord of the Flies tribute muddied by weak writing.
H is for Hawk, Helen Macdonald (2015): A gorgeous book that I had to put down out of basic squeamishness. I don’t eat animals, and I found I wasn’t that keen on intense depictions of their subjugation, hunting, and death.
The Paying Guests, Sarah Waters (2014): I just gave up and read the Wikipedia description.
Two Years Before the Mast, Henry Dana (1840): I couldn’t lock in with the prose, which is an occupational hazard with a book that’s 175 years old.
Moses, Man of the Mountain, Zora Neale Hurston (1939): I loved the early sections, but lost interest as the plot began to wander.
The Martian, Andy Weir (2011): The writing here is sometimes laughably bad and ungainly. It comes as no surprise that it was self-published before taking off with Kindle audiences and being issued as a proper book. At first I couldn’t stand the gee-whiz tone of the narrator; skipping ahead, I saw that the tone wasn’t confined to one character. Back to the library it went.
Did You Ever Have a Family, Bill Clegg (2015): Overly maudlin and drippy.
The Cartel, Don Winslow (2015): My mistake was trying to jump into this before reading its predecessor, The Power of the Dog. Worth revisiting in the future.
Julian Comstock, Robert Charles Wilson (2009): A great idea — a futuristic take on the florid history novels of the 18th and 19th centuries — but one I started to tire of after a hundred pages or so.
City on Fire, Garth Risk Hallberg (2015): Some great writing, but a little weighed down. I realized that I was reading at one point out of a sense of social obligation to one of the year’s Big Books, and not as much out of any real curiosity or connection to the work. When it came time to return it to the library, I let it go without too much sadness.
Early Warning, Jane Smiley (2015): Smiley’s second novel in her American trilogy started as captivating as her first. But I think I’d spent so much time going so deep into the Langdon family that I needed a break, and so jumping into this so soon after completing Some Luck wound up a bit of a miscalculation. I’ll be back to it later, though.
A Prayer for Owen Meany, Station Eleven, Love Me Back, In Persuasion Nation
Many people, including my wife, read faster than I do. I typically read before going to sleep, and usually only make it a few pages before the day’s fatigue catches up with me. Hence, a book someone else might knock out in a few days of dedicated reading will be in my life much longer.↩
I think; it’s been a while.↩
What’s with me and trilogies this year?↩
One of innumerably many.↩