Not Liking the Clown

I always feel guilty whenever I couldn’t finish a book. My bookshelves are filled with books which I read half-way, either due to their voluminous outlook, heavy storyline or I was being tempted by another thinner, seemingly easier to digest book. But most of them I chucked aside with a plan to read them again when I have more time or when I have somehow attained a higher maturity level in my choice of reading materials.

However, recently, I picked up a book which I do not plan to read again – Salman Rushdie’s Shalimar the Clown. Rushdie is an acclaimed writer, and I have bought two of his books, namely Shalimar the Clown and Midnight’s Children. Both these books have been sitting on my bookshelves for years, until two weeks ago when I decided to pick at books to read based on their position on my bookshelves (yeah, I have developed some sort of system to ensure that I read all the books I bought). However, ten pages into the book and I had this uneasy feeling. The feeling that I shouldn’t continue, now and ever.

So I put it down and added it into the stack of “to be recycled” books. Perhaps I was just being over-sensitive. And I couldn’t pinpoint exactly what is making me uneasy.

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