Mysteries by Knut Hamsun

I’ve decided I need a new bookshelf. ‘It’s not you, it’s me’. Perhaps all ex-Catholics need one of them, the one for the books they feel guilty about not finishing.

To begin with I hated this in a ‘I hate this but I want to read it’ way. That became ‘I hate this but by God I’m going to finish it’. And a couple of nights ago, up at 3am that in turn became ‘Yeah, nah. Move on’. And sometimes one moves on without the least guilt at all, other times one is tortured by it. Then one adds the inadequacy of looking it up on goodreads and discovering one wasn’t clever enough to stick with it. I suppose that’s the ‘fear of missing out’ on literary social media.

And I still do feel a bit like that. Guilt aside, I also feel like I might be missing out on a whopper of an ending.

Grrrrr. Maybe the shelf should be called ‘I’m moving on but I can’t get you out of my mind.’




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