I force-fed myself the last 1/3 of A Monk Swimming last night because I was just so ready to be finished with old Malachy and his escapades. Typical me: I wasn't enjoying the book or getting any insight from it, but I couldn't just not finish it. I had to see how it ended. The answer: poorly. It just stopped with no resolution, no promise, nothing. Just stopped. I suppose McCourt really was/is a funny guy, but I just couldn't get over feeling like he was making it all up just to be funny, and it wasn't all that funny. I suppose it is kind of like my reaction to Running with Scissors. I just don't want to make room in my world for this man and his drunken infidelities. No reason to junk up the corners of my mind when there is always useful or thought-provoking stuff still out there. I just wish I could convince myself of this truth WITHOUT having to read the whole book. It's still true midway through.
Speaking of useful and thought-provoking: I got turned on to Annie Leonard and her The Story of Stuffyesterday thanks to Facebook, so I've ordered it; however, it won't be here until Tuesday, so in the meantime . . . what is the next for to be vanquished? Surely I can get another McKay-bound tome finished before Leonard's book gets here. Bets?