Many times on this blog, I have written about books, buying books--especially used books, reading books, reviewing books, and sometimes about books which I have not liked at all. But I'm a bit funny about how I deal with beginning a book I turn out to not like compared to how many other readers deal with such books. I almost never throw a book out without finishing it even when I have decided that I don't like it, that it is garbage, never should have been printed, and is almost totally a waste of time for everyone who has ever been involved with it including both myself and the author, the publisher, the printer, the printer's devil to use an old typesetting term, the mail man or woman who dropped it off in my mail box, the low paid and under respected worker at the Goodwill Store where I might have bought it, right down to the eventual garbage man who will dump it along with the other contents of a can into the yawning and cavernous jaws of a garbage truck. Yet, I like to acknowledge the fact that the author who spent the time to write it, get it accepted for publication, and sold made a commitment to do the necessary work to produce whatever 100, 200, or 2,000 pages of drivel I have attached to myself and my psyche much like the man or woman working on a county road gang has been a participant in the process of attaching a ball and chain to their leg and placing a Pulaski or weed blade in their hands. I have also made a commitment to the author, publisher, editor--if there was one half asleep at a desk the day they approved that particular epistle for publication, and that same belittled and beleagured Goodwill employee who rang it up, added the tax, and then had the gall to ask me if I wanted to round up so the same corporation who is robbing that person of their services and scrape extra money from me so they can move on to the next belittled and beleagured employee who has no other employment options at the time. If the author took themselves seriously enough to do the work to produce the book, put in on the market, and hope for its success much like a poor mother wishing her very ordinary child can become president some day, I owe that author the common decency to shut my mouth, put my negative opinions in my pocket, grit my teeth, and ride this flea bitten nag of a book to the end of the line where it may or may not be noted with the words, "The End", "Fini", or simply "Sucker, You Had It Coming". Authors are a weird lot say I who have also launched a couple dozen short stories into the world without ever herding them and a few others into the covers of book much like poor, bedraggled cattle into a muddy, dung spattered holding pen until the truck arrives to take them to the stockyard. Why on God's green earth, you are probably asking yourself, did I feel the need to take the time to give this nod to all the poorly educated and trained scribblers who have created so many overpriced wastes of paper and printer's ink? The answer is that I am currently involved in reading two books simultaneously which I would not have been willing to pay fifty cents for the pair if I had known in advance what they contained...or failed to contain. I am always reading at least one book, generally two or three at a time, because my wife and I are engaged in a long term habit of reading a novel together which I usually read aloud day after day as she washes the dishes. Then I rinse those dishes. We have also for a year or two been reading one short story from some collection or other in the evenings after supper. Thank God, as I have been involved in reading two bad books at the same time, we have also been reading a collection of short stories which is composed of 28 fine stories by 20 or so authors of some repute. Without that short story of quality each day, I would be pulling my hair out. Thank God for Guy de Maupassant, O. Henry, Richard Connell, Frank R. Stockton, and Jack London.
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