A.R.Ts (134)

The world is filled with articles that test your worth as a reader on a scale from Bhagat to Tolstoy. As I reflect on my own reading habits, here are the books and authors I have tried to / wanted to / aspired to read, but somehow never made it.

The quintessential classics. The ones that always feature in the "Ten must-read books of the century". The Chaucers, Tolstoys, and Chekovs of the world who every reader worth his salt will swear by. I have read Shakespeare and Dickens in school, so you can imagine how abridged the versions would be. My greatest fear is that I will have trouble understanding such pure unadulterated literature after so much trash that I have read over the years.

PG Wodehouse. I may have gotten away as a Tam Bram who never had filter coffee, but I think this one has been my most unforgivable offence so far. I have spent many years in my college library seeing his books from a distance but I chose Freud and Jung over him so that I could ace my psychology major. As a consequence of not being able to contribute to discussions on the by-now-iconic Jeeves, I have faced literary ostracism on multiple occasions. One of my 2015 resolutions is to finally read a Wodehouse.

Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged. I tried hard on this one. Like many books, I assumed this one too would grow on you, albeit slowly. But somehow, this magnum opus on the railroad network set in the pre depression era just was not able to sustain my interest. There were too many unfamiliar elements in the story which I struggled to piece together - the economics of the era, the political structures, the excruciatingly minute details about steel and railroad machinery - that I finally decided to save the book for another time.

Harry Potter series. I have figured I am not a fantasy person any more. So while I grew up on a steady diet of elfs, witches and wizards, I left them back in the enchanting woods and faraway lands created by Enid Blyton. Same reason why I never took to the JRR Tolkein series. I read one Hobbit to realise that the story of his bumpy journey through misty mountains fraught with goblins and dwarves is something I can at best read out to my seven year old nephew.

Agatha Christie. For a long time, I didn't know she was female. And then when I got to know that she has the dual distinction of writing detective stories and romantic novels, I was in awe. But thanks to my steadfast loyalty to my detective hero Sherlock Holmes and Watson, I lost out on the stories of Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple.

As an outcome of some these reflections, my theme for this year's reading is "Retro". Send me your recommendations as I start with One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez today.