So I’m reading this book, The Village by David Mamet. I found it at a used book store a couple of weeks ago and was eager to immerse myself in Mamet’s writing world since he is known for his searing, snappy dialogue, and I thought I might learn a thing or two.
I’m not much liking it. There isn’t a whole lot of structure to it, and it’s often as difficult to understand who is speaking (or, more commonly, who is introspectively musing) as in a Faulkner novel. There really isn’t a lot of dialogue either. It’s mostly monologue. I’m about two-thirds of the way through it, and I think I have a few of the characters worked out in my mind, but then a new chapter starts and I’m adrift again.
So I’d like to just finish the thing, turn the last page and then put the book on my donation shelf. I want to get to the end. And I simultaneously don’t want to pick it up to read it. I want to get started on the next Iris Murdoch novel in my reading ambition, but I don’t want to give any time to this sluggish book that I really ought to finish first.
I’ll do it. I’ll read the book to the end. And then I’ll get rid of it and probably forget it and only console myself with the idea that at least I gave some money to one of the last surviving used book stores in Kansas City. And I’ll move on.
Update 25FEB2016: Despite emphatic advice that I just stop reading it, I actually hope to finish this novel tonight. Whether I pick up the Iris Murdoch novel or one of the many other books I brought home from Portland, I can’t say.