Help a book-lover out

Gentle reader, I am stuck. Quagmired. Bogged down and sluggishly gurgling. And I require help. Guidance from those most qualified to guide.

It all began when I was gifted, by my partner of 23 years, a book token. Now, my partner of 23 years is, well, not a reliable gift giver. One Christmas, I recall skipping through Facebook feeds full of the glittering gifts my peers had unwrapped beneath the Christmas tree that morning, and wondering whether I should post the photograph of the whoopee cushion and stapler I had been given. Another year, he made me a table from a cross section of tree. I have received a broken puzzle from a charity shop one year, and the next, a framed section of map, at its centre, the village where, as a frequently relocated child, my soul had felt most content. But a book token was a good bet. We share a bank account, and here, in my hands, was £20 I was now obligated to spend in the book shop. I would like to say on books, but half went on a local Ordinance Survey map, which has fed my legs and my lungs well. The remainder did indeed, go on a book. A book I have just now offered a very brief review of over on the Critique community and, to be frank, have not much more to say about.

You will know, I imagine, the delight of entering a book shop not to browse, but with the intention to actually exit again a whole world heavier. You will understand, too, the anguish of such a bounty of choice! Like bitter sweet chocolate, pleasure and pain. I had a day off work. The children were in school. The day was ripe for the taking, and with sandwiches and book token in my back pack I took the train into London. First, the British Museum, where I marvelled at the Elgin Marbles, and felt the weight of their contention. Next, I wandered the National Gallery, dwarfed by several centuries of meaning making. Finally, I entered a book shop, the thrum of cultural connectedness alive in my veins. And in this state of heightened humanity, I chose my book. Poorly.

100 Years of Solitude is not doing it for me. It is neither moving me, nor shaking me. It is losing me. This is largely an issue of characterisation. I hesitate to say poor characterisation, we each have our proclivities, but certainly characterisation which, for me, is leaving me about as invested as I would be (forgive me) watching Grimsby Town football club playing Accrington Stanley. In the rain. The tale rattles on, with generation after generation named nearly identically, as some die young and some fail to die at all it seems, casually trotting though monumental personality changes with barely a comma, as characters come and go and come again, for, I suppose, 100 years. I do not feel it a personal failing the I am unable to offer a plot summary.

Except this is not the entirety of the matter. Because interspersed within the Dickenseque paragraphs of seeming endlessness, there are passages of Columbian gold, convincing me that Eldorado may be near. After all, Salman Rushdie is quoted on the rear cover as considering this “The greatest novel in any language of the last fifty years”. I mean, he may since have changed his mind, I suppose, but the quote remains in print.

So let me now come to my dilemma. The copy I purchased with my precious book token is 422 pages in length. I am on page 247. Do I finish it?