Books I Can't: 'The Story of My Life' by Helen Keller

Yikes. I wish I could explain why I read this book. Maybe because subconsciously I knew Rory Gilmore read it? Maybe because it was in my audiobook app's queue, even though I don't remember adding it? Maybe because even after it started and I realized how much I hated it, I noticed I was already halfway through, and I might as well finish it?

If you, too, are  a child of the 80s and grew up on Helen Keller jokes, skip this book. I'm not defending them, but it just makes it too difficult to take her seriously as a narrator because the book was at times so dull that old Helen Keller jokes were all I could think about. I was immensely disappointed by how uninteresting the book was, given how interesting I expected her life to be. So many of the gritty details of her learning to sign and speak and read are quickly brushed over, but she dedicated an entire chapter to a time when she accidentally plagiarized a story as a child; she writes as though it were the worst thing that ever happened to her, even worse than, oh...I don't know...GOING BLIND?! And the boringness aside, she is not a likable narrator; she sets the stage for her life story with a description of her family's Southern plantation and her constant torture of her black childhood companion who could be a character in a Harriet Beecher Stowe novel.

Books I Can't Even (apologies for the use of Internet cliches) is a recurring post on books I absolutely could not finish, usually after several attempts.

Books I Can't: 'The Awakening' by Kate Chopin

As a feminist, I am supposed to appreciate The Awakening, a novella about protagonist Edna Pontellier's earnest desire for a life independent of her husband and children and the responsibilities and social constrictions associated with being a wife and mother. But I do not.

I love reading about women who completely defy societal expectations, but I absolutely hate reading about women who conform and then change their minds after they've gotten married and given birth. It is shitty to abandon your children and ignore your responsibility to them -- this applies to both mothers and fathers in equal measure. Edna does not have to be a likable character in order to be a compelling heroine, but I don't even find her mildly interesting. Her inner life seems utterly preoccupied by very minute, almost petty concerns that for her (or more likely Kate Chopin, her creator), symbolize some greater struggle against her husband and societal expectations; but for me, these fall completely flat. I'm also immensely disappointed that she makes almost no serious attempt to improve her situation -- she has some emotional and physical affairs that are ultimately not fulfilling, and she comes to the realization that there are only two roles for women in society -- wife and mother or hermit -- and decides the only thing left to do is commit suicide, which in her case feels so utterly cowardly. And from a literary standpoint, the book ends when it could just be getting started.

It's considered an early and essential feminist text and it's incredibly short, so I guess just read it and get it over with and move on with your life, preferably with help from Virginia Woolf, my author of choice for books about women who feel isolated and struggle with identity issues.

Books I Can't Even (apologies for the use of Internet cliches) is a recurring post on books I absolutely could not finish, usually after several attempts.

Books I Can't Even: 'Siddhartha' by Herman Hesse

Siddhartha is one of those books I blame entirely on Baby Boomers. I blame them for most things, actually (pollution, the recent recession, suburbanization, etc), but New Age fiction is one of their most egregious contributions to popular culture -- Richard Bachmann and so forth. Siddhartha is the novelization of the life of Buddha, and it is widely lauded for its incredibly spare prose. There is something so frustrating about the conceit; I love spare prose and will give credit where it's due, but I refuse to believe that Siddhartha is the revelation it's held up to be; in its case, the spare prose just feels very derivative of so many religious texts that preceded it, making it clever imitation, not any kind of style ingenuity. Maybe I can enjoy being cynical about it because I was born in the 80s and grew up in an era devoid of the obsession with the East. Of course the 90s had its own post-Hippie phase, but that was more about music and looked to the influence of cultural icons like Jerry Garcia and Janis Joplin, and wasn't nearly as invested in Buddhist philosophy. And as a proud Millenial, in a constant quest for "authenticity," I hate that the book people most closely associate with Eastern philosophy was written by a German and a Christian.

I managed to finish the book because it's of a length and difficulty-level appropriate for an elementary school student (a recurring theme in New Age fiction, no?) but I hated every second of it.

Books I Can't Even (apologies for the use of Internet cliches) is a recurring post on books I absolutely could not finish, usually after several attempts.

Books I Can't Even: 'Invisible Man' by Ralph Ellison

Technically, Invisible Man should not count, because I did once read the entire book; it was an AP English Literature assignment, so I had little choice, but it was probably the only novel I read for school that I absolutely hated. Plus, I will always remember the time it helped me win a Quiz Bowl competition (Never forget -- Invisible Man and The Invisible Man are two different books).

 As I've mentioned, I'm making an effort to infuse my reading with more diversity, and generally I've found that to be a really rewarding challenge. And certainly I would agree with most high school English teachers that this is a book Americans should read But because I've already read it, I can be smug and complain about how little I enjoyed it. Naturally, a book that seeks the dramatize the African American experience in the first half of the twentieth century is not going to be a laugh riot. It's not just that the plot is plodding, joyless, struggle, but that the writing reflects this; because our nameless protagonist is treated as an "invisible man" by the world around him, he lacks development in a way that is frustratingly effective. It completely succeeds in its assertions about being African American, but as a result, it's incredibly tough to get through. Sometimes struggling through a difficult novel can be a really enriching experience, and often stellar African American literature is the best example of this -- Beloved is gut-wrenching, and there were so many times I had to put it down and take a break, but it absolutely deserves all the praise it has received and more, and Toni Morrison's incredible prose really eases the pain. Ralph Ellison is not trying to make this easy for the reader, however; the difficulty is the whole point. So in the end, I'm glad I read it and now I never have to read it again.

Books I Can't Even (apologies for the use of Internet cliches) is a recurring post on books I absolutely could not finish, usually after several attempts.

Books I Can't Even: 'Little Women' by Louisa May Alcott

This is a bit of a dirty little literary secret for me because I know an immense amount about Little Women and have the Winona Ryder movie completely memorized. Everyone has always assumed I had read this classic of American literature because it seems exactly like the kind of thing I would read and love and read again and again, but for my many attempts I've never had much success.

Considering I've never managed to finish it, I own quite a few copies of Little Women. I have one physical copy on the bookshelf, and the pages are clearly mangled through Chapter 4 or so (hangin' with Laurie), and the rest is in pristine condition. Then I have the free version of the audiobook which was too dry and poorly recorded for me to make it beyond Christmas morning. Finally, I have the good Audible version read by a professional, which has 18 hours and 22 minutes remaining. So I've endured the opening Christmas with the March family multiple times, but I've never read or even listened to any other part of the book.

There is a really great sub-plot on an episode of 'Modern Family' in which Alex babysits for Lily and insists on reading aloud to her from Little Women for her own good; a chapter or so into the book, Alex realizes how annoying all the characters can be and gives up, and Lily gives her a makeover. I couldn't find a clip but it's the episode 'The Late Show.' And that pretty much sums it up -- it is such an overbearing morality tale and it smothers the otherwise sparkling characters of the March sisters, which is why I think they translate so well on screen. Winona Ryder can scowl better than anyone, and she can convey ten different emotions in a single scowl, including, most importantly, her own selfishness mingled with the realization of her own selfishness and her simultaneous desire NOT to be selfish. Jo March on the page has no such skills, which is why she has to go on and on about wanting to be good, which gets very old, very fast.

Also, and this is probably the most important point -- how can anyone get behind this travesty of a novel KNOWING (spoiler alert) that Laurie and Jo don't end up together? 

Books I Can't Even (apologies for the use of Internet cliches) is a recurring post on books I absolutely could not finish, usually after several attempts.