That feeling you get when you’ve passed the 80% mark in a book. You hold in your right hand the last small chunk of pages. Plot mysteries are revealed one by one, with every turn of the page. You start to smile as you realize that your hypotheses were mostly wrong, but that the truths are all much more interesting and exciting. The words get more sexual.

I just finished reading The Third Reich by Roberto Bolaño. I’d read him before, so the weirdness didn’t turn me off at all.

But the ending wasn’t as romantic and satisfying as it was in the other books of his that I’d read. He kept insinuating things that would happen to the main character, but never completely following through. Or following through, but limply.

I’m off now to read one of his books again, only this time in Spanish. I’m not sure this is such a good idea.

The past two evenings have been spent with new friends and my best friend Mrs. Pint-o-ale, and much of the discussions I’ve had revolved around reading. What we like to read, when we read, on what media we find ourselves reading the most. My answer to the first question was something along the lines of “fiction, historical accounts, Edward Tufte”.

Which brings me to my point. I’m not really enjoying reading historical accounts these days. I know I crave the information, and I find military history fascinating in general. I had more than enough credits to minor (and nearly enough to major) in history in college, only I skipped the intro courses so I couldn’t count those credits towards some more words on my degree. I watched the History Channel almost exclusively through high school and college.

And I enjoy reading. I don’t tear through books like some people, but about 95% of my subway riding is conducted with my nose up to paper pages.

Back to my original train of thought: Why can’t I get through more than a few pages of John Keegan’s incredible one-volume account of The First World War before wanting to stick my earbuds in and listen to a podcast or music? This never happens when I’m reading fiction (not even while reading the incredibly dense fourth section of 2666 which chronicles, one by one, hundreds of gruesome killings of women in Mexico, shit).

The closest I can come to diagnosing this bizarre aversion to reading history is that I don’t get “sucked in.” When I read Bolaño or Fitzgerald, I find certain passages pulling me deep into the story. I even think about reading when I’m not reading. That’s a pretty good barometer of a good book, I think! But it’s not happening with history books the way I want it to.

Oh, and I had to put Infinite Jest down a few pages into the ebonics-written chapter. Lost my patience. I’m told it gets better.