Saturday by Ian McEwan

Before I start, I just want to say how excited I am about this challenge. 1001 books is an incredible amount. Sweet mercy, it's going to take me YEARS to finish this list. But I love reading, and I love fictitious novels. I love getting sucked into a book. I love getting attached to the characters and I love laughing with them, crying with them, enjoying their lives while I can. Reading takes me away for a bit and throws me into places and lives that I couldn't dream of seeing and living. But I do see places and I do live lives when I read. I'm just disappointed that this is the book I chose to kick off this adventure.

I have to put this book to rest. It has taken me way too long to finish it, and I am sick of seeing it sitting on my coffee table.
The main question I would ask after finishing this book is, Why in the world was this book even written? It's literally only the space of one day in one man's life. It's almost like the author wrote it to see if he could get away with it, or if he could actually only write one day of a character's life and make it appealing enough for people to get involved.
It's not like this book is badly written, or lacks relevance, it's just simply boring and I clearly don't have the sympathy it demands.
I will admit that the boredom is probably a factor from the reader (me). I'm sure others have read this book and loved it. I mean, it was a New York Times Bestseller and it is on this list to read "before I die".
The main character is a middle-aged British neurosurgeon living in the after-math of 9/11. As an American citizen I have never stopped to think about how that event affected Britain at that time, mainly because I was only 10 when it happened and I lacked the depth that kind of curiosity requires.
But let me tell you, this man is affected all right, by a protest. Give me a break. Heaven forbid  you were stuck in traffic because people were protesting the bombing of Iraq, on a main street that you normally take to get to work. Cry me a freakin' river. While you (and I say you referring to the main character of this novel) are whining in your BMW X5, stuck in traffic, firefighters are still pulling bodies out of the Twin Towers just a skip across the ocean. Your high-end British life is just such a tragedy.
The entire book is focused on the affects of this protest on this doctor's DAY OFF, Saturday. He WAS expecting to get to the butcher's shop at 1pm, but he lost a game of Squash so he was late. Let's lament for 50 pages because this alters the protagonist's life and destiny. OH MY GOSH.
The author is a British man, about the same age of the character actually, so I'm sure it was easy for him to relate to this character and write enough about him to fill 308 pages. However, I am neither middle-aged, British, or a man. It was extremely difficult for me to even muster up enough interest to start new chapters because I could not find a inch of common interest between the character and I. Having said that, it's not like I hate novels where the voice is that of a man, or someone middle-aged, or even British. Even someone who does not read can agree that if you can't connect with the main character and find the will to care, the book will suck, for lack of a better word.
So. It's not that I don't recommend this book, I DO! I just know that for me, I could have died and been just fine if I had never even heard of this book. You (and I say you, referring to YOU) may have the ability to connect with the problems this man has during his Saturday off and devour this book. If so, kudos. You will have done what I could not do.

Love, Austi

Why Fiction?

People always say that they “never read” when starting a book list. They lament the fact that they have too little time or energy to get cozy with a book. But for me to say that I never read would be inaccurate at best: as a philosophy major, words and arguments have become my bread and butter. I spend hours in the cavernous basement of my college library, poring over lengthy treatises penned by dead white men. It’s not always the most exciting reading, but I certainly clock in my fair share of the written word. I’m not doing this for lack of exposure to ideas and ink.

So the question becomes, why am I bothering with an enormous book list? Why do I even need fiction?

Because fiction is the best therapy I can afford. It is, quite simply, one of few healthy ways we can resolve our lingering frustrations, our shortcomings, our fears. When we feel trapped and lonely, we need look no further than Flaubert’s Emma and her desperate longing for something more. When society seems harsh and unforgiving, characters like Lily Bart and Jude Fawley stand as testaments to its cruelty. And when we reach into the labyrinthine mind of Kafka, we often find our own darkest thoughts reflected back. I like the way that fiction forces me to feel, to confront the things that I’d rather shove under the carpet. It’s much like pressing on a bruise- it serves to remind me that I'm only human, after all.

I'm excited to begin this project, to explore the workings of my innermost thoughts. If there are any readers out there, I hope you'll bear with me. And who knows? You just might discover that you need fiction as desperately as I do.

-Claire