For a long time, I treated unfinished books as a personal shortcoming. If I didn’t connect, I assumed the problem was attention, patience, or effort. That I hadn’t tried hard enough. But reading is not a moral exercise. It’s a relationship, and like most relationships, it’s shaped by timing, mood, expectation, and capacity.
Some books arrive asking for immersion when you’re only capable of skimming the surface. Others demand surrender when what you need is steadiness. Some are brilliant, ambitious, and exacting, but emotionally distant. Letting them go is not a failure of reading. It’s part of learning how you read, and who you are as a reader at any given moment.
These are a few books I didn’t finish, and what staying with them, briefly or partially, still taught me.
Ulysses by James Joyce
This one feels almost ceremonial to admit. I admired it deeply. I respected its ambition, its influence, its sheer audacity. What I didn’t feel was the desire to live inside it. Reading Ulysses felt like standing before something monumental and recognising that awe and intimacy are not the same thing.
I don’t consider my attempt wasted. I learned how much texture and invention I’m willing to meet, and where admiration tips into distance. Ulysses taught me that it’s possible to value a book without needing to finish it.
Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace
I wanted to be the reader who could do this. The footnotes. The digressions. The intellectual stamina. For a while, the challenge felt energising, like being invited into a restless, hyperactive mind. Eventually, though, the effort of staying oriented overtook the pleasure of reading.
What I took from Infinite Jest was an understanding of my own limits. Difficulty alone is not the same as depth, and labour doesn’t automatically translate into meaning. Sometimes a book asks for a kind of endurance that edges out curiosity.
The Little Friend by Donna Tartt
Coming to The Little Friend after The Secret History brought expectation with it. I anticipated momentum, intrigue, a similar pull. Instead, the novel moved slowly, deliberately, and with a heaviness that resisted propulsion.
It wasn’t the writing that stopped me. It was the mismatch between what I thought I wanted and what the book offered. That experience taught me how much expectation shapes reading, and how easily comparison can interrupt attention.
Gravity’s Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon
This was excess in every direction. Language, paranoia, humour, theory, all competing for space. I could see the brilliance. I could also feel myself growing tense rather than absorbed.
Reading Gravity’s Rainbow began to feel performative, as though the act of reading had become about endurance rather than encounter. Walking away was less about defeat and more about choosing clarity over spectacle.
A Suitable Boy by Vikram Seth
This was a book I wanted to sink into, but its sheer scale became the obstacle. The world-building is rich, generous, and meticulously detailed, but it demands a long stretch of uninterrupted attention. I found myself dipping in and out, never quite settling.
I didn’t stop because I wasn’t interested. I stopped because I couldn’t give it the time it deserved. It reminded me that some books need space around them, and that without that space, even the most rewarding reading experiences can feel strained.
Not finishing a book sharpens your sense of self as a reader. It clarifies what you’re drawn to, what you resist, and what you’re willing to work through at a given moment. It also strips away the idea that reading is about endurance or completion.
Sometimes stopping is an act of care. Sometimes it’s how you make room for the book that will meet you exactly where you are.
Reading isn’t about getting through things.
It’s about attention, and knowing when to stay, and when to stop.
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