I’ve just officially abandoned a book because it contained way too many details. I can appreciate that the man could remember every detail of his existence, but attempting to read and follow all of them kept giving me headaches. I used to wonder just how many details were enough and if there was such a thing as too many. I also used to think that Moby Dick was a long book.
I now know that some details are necessary to make a point or even highlight a highlight of someone’s life, but I have discovered that I am really not interested in what color dress that cute girl in high school wore every friday. It’s fine to describe the scene of a murder but not necessary to give me a tour of the entire house. That damnable whale was important to the story, but Herman Melville was wise not to describe every person in the tavern where our intrepid hero signed up to go chase the critter.
I have officially given up on my attempt to read My Life by Bill Clinton and shall now continue on with Gateway by Frederik Pohl.