I am currently whoring myself between three different books. I know, I know…I should be ashamed of myself, but I’m not. I’ve never been so brazen before, but I’m feeling justified by my behaviour, for the following reasons:
1) ‘Heart of Darkness’, by Joseph Conrad, is a laborious read. Laborious. I’m struggling, and each time I pick it up, I can manage just a few lines before my mind starts to wander.
2) ‘Moby Dick’, by Herman Melville, is an e-book, which means it’s on the iPad, which means I have to remember to take it to bed. And I don’t. Ever. Plus it started off so well, and now it’s started to get a bit…laborious.
3) I can’t even remember the name of the third book. The title has something about secrets in it, but I can’t tell you any more than that. It’s pretty rubbishy; I’m only part of the way through, and I’m wondering how it got published.
4) none of these books mean anything to me. It’s purely about words, having something to send me off to sleep at night.
I will carry on – slowly – with them all, and I will hope that each of them gets better, but if they don’t…they might go the way of ‘Ulysses’, I’m afraid.