This is an old entry at my old livejournal, dated 11 January 2009. That’s more than four years ago. 

I don’t want another The Lovely Bones. I should have bought something else when I saw that recommendation comparing The Time Traveller’s Wife to that book. I am kicking myself in the head for reading both books because they were so dragging and uneventful.

The Time Traveller’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger is a difficult read. Difficult for me because it was too “conversational” for my taste, using the word as a euphemism. I felt that Niffenegger wasted so many words. It was laid out ever so slowly and ever so long that there were many times that I would feel that when is this going to end?

Yes, the premise might be heartbreaking: A man has a genetic disorder of warping/leaving anytime to his past or future. To put it bluntly, that just means that he could time travel. His wife is the one who suffers from his frequent leaving.

The author adds so many details that dragged the book for as long as it did. 518 pages of details that explained too much.  Details that did not matter like Sharon and burglarizing and too many socializing episodes. She also uses so many names as metaphors, esoteric references to authors, artists, musicians, so many names that I am just convinced she’s trying to pull my leg trying to wow me with all of her artsy knowledge.

The story is heartbreaking at times too. But all the characters were so dispassionate about their condition and unsympathetic because they talked too much about their feelings. Yes, I became sad with what happened to (someone) at the end. Show, don’t tell.

My heart is with Clare (the wife), just not with Audrey Niffenegger, the author. She quotes Rilke poems at length–not just any Rilke poems but the Stephen Mitchell translations! She has love of birds, wings. She seems to love punk rock and opera. She tempers her own sadness, teaches herself patience each time her husband disappears.

The premise was good, but the writing was quite poor. There were so many episodes in the book that had potential. A potential that would have made me change my opinion about it had it not been so muddled with prosaic explanations and banal conversations about their daily lives. Too much, too much.

Maybe I would have liked it if I never expected too much of it. Yes, maybe that is it.

Perhaps you’ve seen the delight and, sometimes, panic of many self-proclaimed readers whenever they are asked to enumerate their favorite books.

Delight because it brings about a surge of memories of that time when the favorite book was discovered. Delight of the remembrance of that time when the favorite book was being read almost to the point of neglecting sleep. Then some panic surges in as the realization of the limit of (let’s say) ten may have been imposed and “How Am I Suppose To Just Think of Ten Books?” Compulsive readers may strike one from the list then reinstate in the same heartbeat.

Favorite books, not to sound trite, are proverbial constellations. They pave the way to numerous other wonderful books. They are compasses to our literacy and (to an extent) our writing capacities. After all, books shape the way most readers write.

Since getting myself an ebook reader tablet, I have getting much much more time to read. I have read more books in the past week than I have had in the past two months. My reading speed has improved because of the said device.

For the most part, I believe I am a reader more than I am a writer. I have long given up on the idea that I might be a writer, at least not in the sort that I want to be. It takes such discipline and intelligence to be one. I lack both, I think. I am an average reader, for the most part. I do not know how people assume that I read a lot. I could only finish several (fiction) books in a year, less than 12 on bad years.

Part of my Summer Reading List for Summer Vacation 2013.