Someone has been meaning to finish a book for eight months, and it’s currently sitting on a shelf, a nightstand, or crammed into a bag. They purchased it because it was recommended, because it won a prize, or because a friend put it in their hands with the urgency of someone who needs you to understand something they can’t quite put their finger on. It was initiated by them. They made it about one-third of the way. One evening, they put it down to attend to something else, and they never picked it up again. It now accumulates a particular type of guilt while sitting there patiently and accusingly.
The majority of readers are familiar with this emotion. It’s interesting to note how seldom anyone challenges the guilt itself.
It’s important to look at the underlying premise, which is that once a book is started, it becomes obligatory. There are other areas of leisure life where this assumption does not hold true. No one watches a television show they no longer enjoy out of obligation. Nobody stares at the screen with grim determination during the second half of a movie that lost them in the first. Part of the legacy of reading instruction is the belief that books are unique and have moral significance that other storytelling mediums do not. Books are assigned by schools. Books are graded. Early on, students develop the habit of viewing reading as a task with a proper completion state, which persists long after they leave the classroom.
In The Books in My Life, Henry Miller argued for reading less in a straightforward manner that is still a little shocking. He maintained that the fifth item on his list—enjoyment in the true sense, stimulation, and the feeling of being enlarged by an encounter with something—is the only valid reason to read. The other justifications—following current trends, making an impression on others, and reading what you’re advised to read—don’t stand up. If the fifth is the only compelling reason to read, then the question is straightforward: is this book accomplishing that? The math isn’t difficult if the answer is no and a different book or activity would work better. Set the book aside.
This is prevented by a particular kind of reasoning error that has a name. The inclination to keep investing in something because of what you’ve already invested rather than because of what you’re likely to get out is known as the sunk-cost fallacy. It is equally indifferent to failing companies, strained relationships, and half-read books. Whether you finish the book or not, the money spent on it is lost. Either way, the hours that have already been put in are lost. The only thing to consider is whether it would be better to spend the next hour here or somewhere else. Staying is not discipline when the solution is elsewhere. It’s nothing more than inertia disguised as virtue.
Depending on the type of book in question, the practical case varies slightly. Fiction that isn’t working is typically just fiction that isn’t working—the wrong book, the wrong time, or perhaps the wrong reader—and the case for leaving is fairly clear. Since many non-fiction books are, if you’re being honest, just one compelling argument with several hundred pages of supporting evidence, non-fiction is more difficult. The first two or three chapters present the argument. The remainder is elaboration. Skimming the chapter headers, introduction, and conclusion can sometimes convey the essence of a book in forty minutes rather than six hours, and reading non-fiction straight through to the end is frequently a habit rather than a requirement. This isn’t dishonest. It’s calibration.
It’s difficult to ignore the fact that some readers experience more guilt about unfinished books than others. The majority of people who learned to read in school were early adopters of the completion model. The book was given to me. It was read by you. It was used to evaluate you. It wasn’t an option to just quit because the thing wasn’t working for you. Adults use this framework when they read for pleasure and subtly sense that they are being graded. They’re not. There isn’t a grade. All they have to do is decide how to spend the hour that lies ahead of them.
The counterargument—that reading is difficult, that books that don’t immediately appeal can occasionally reward patience, and that giving up too easily means missing things—is valid and shouldn’t be disregarded. A slow start is actually necessary for some books. Completing a challenging task can yield a sense of fulfillment that simple books cannot. It’s not that difficulty is a bad thing. The idea is that joylessness and difficulty are two different things, and only one of them is worth enduring. A difficult but vibrant book is worth the work. It is not a personal failing to give up on a book that is just not working, be it dull, poorly written, or about something you don’t care about right now. It’s simply a mismatch.
A book that is impeding traffic, sitting there unfinished, making you feel bad every time you pass it, and preventing you from reaching for something that might truly matter to you is doing the exact opposite of what books are for, as writer James Colley stated in The Guardian with a directness that cuts through most of the hand-wringing. A reader’s failure is not demonstrated by an incomplete book. It’s proof that the wrong book was started at the wrong moment. Giving up on reading is not the same as letting it go. It’s often the only way to continue reading at all.
Chloe Olliver is the Senior Editor at vclib.org, where she leads editorial coverage of literary criticism, political commentary, cultural analysis, and the evolving relationship between literature and public life across New York City and beyond. With a career spanning the intersection of literary journalism, political commentary, and educational publishing, Chloe brings both rigorous research discipline, in-depth knowledge, experience, and an accessible editorial voice to subjects that most readers find thought-provoking and culturally significant.