I almost never give up on a book.  I keep telling myself that if something got so far as actually being published, it must have some redeeming quality somewhere.

So I tried reading The Third Policeman by Brian O’Nolan.

From Wikipedia:

The Third Policeman is a novel by Irish writer Brian O’Nolan, writing under the pseudonym Flann O’Brien. It was written between 1939 and 1940, but after it initially failed to find a publisher, the author withdrew the manuscript from circulation and claimed he had lost it. The book remained unpublished at the time of his death in 1966. It was published by MacGibbon & Kee in 1967.

My humble opinion is that MacGibbon & Kee should have let this book remain unpublished, untimely death of the author or not.

The book is surreal to the point of being unintelligible – at least to this fat old lady. 

And I tried.  I really, really tried.  I got a little more than half way through the book before I simply decided – life is too short and went looking for something else to read.

Some critics, apparently, have loved this book.  Good for them.

The older I get, the less patience I have for a book that is bizarre for the sole purpose of being bizarre. 

And if you think my taste in books is pedestrian – could be – don’t care – there are plenty of books in the world, and please feel free to read what pleases you!

I repeat, life is too short.

So now I’m reading some good old Elmore Leonard – who, per the NY Times, is a “A man of few, yet perfect, words.”

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