I have a confession to make. I haven’t finished Plutarch. He’s a lovely old Greek gentleman, and I did enjoy what I did read, but there came a moment when I couldn’t bear his voice or his concerns. I was drowning in more, more, more of the same.
It’s partly my fault. When I was a kid “abridged” was a dirty word. I wanted all or nothing. I hold myself to this standard long after time and common sense should have taught me better. Sometime’s there’s a reason people prefer the abridged. Sometimes it’s better because poor or unnecessary parts have been cut out, but I just can’t bring myself to pick up the popular edition if there is another edition that is more complete.
My spine problem at the moment is The Arabian Nights. The stories are mesmerizing and they bring to life a Muslim culture just as I’ve finished reading the Qur’an. Many of the stories are familiar and that helps, but Persian storytelling is encrusted with detail and not always the rubies and diamonds kind. It all rounds out the story experience, but I’m struggling to not pitch the book across the room when some useless side detail about the servants of the two characters that are in thwarted love. Who cares? Is he going to die or not?
It is obviously true that this would go much better if I dosed them out one a night like Scheherazade. Even then the excellent and complete The Arabian Nights edition from Barnes and Noble has a two inch spine and tiny font which even so the stories are sixty to one hundred pages—broken up by some much needed and attractive pictures. I have enjoyed it all, but the goal-meeting freak in me is not enjoying the long delay between finishes.
In the future I think I will pair these monster books with short poetry books and such. I pulled out a gift edition of Sonnets from the Portuguese, and the fact that I can complete it at any time is helping me to keep slugging. As for Plutarch I’ll get back to him, maybe this summer.
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