Motherless Brooklyn by Jonathan Lethem

Still haven’t decided if I like Jonathan Lethem. Motherless Brooklyn is my third. Is it strange that I keep reading him until I do?[1]

Sometimes I feel like I waste my time reading books that aren’t great,[2] but can we really only read books we love? Even if I were to always read exactly what I want, unfettered by what I have access to and/or can afford to buy, I still wouldn’t be able to avoid reading bad books. I could certainly weed out books I’m more likely not going to enjoy but that’s a broad brush as often wrong as right. Because, ultimately, there’s only one way to know if you like a book, and that is to read it. Or maybe, to paraphrase Billy Preston, if you can’t read the book you love, love the book you read.

-Reading the Why

[1] And by that, do I mean until I decide, or until I like him?
[2] Don’t repeat that too loud, I don’t want the people who shake their head at me for always finishing the books I start to feel vindicated.[3]
[3] And that’s not the problem anyway; how many times have I hated the first 150 pages of a book and ended up loving it?

 

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