I started reading The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, but I couldn’t even get past half of the book.
But the funny thing is that I hadn’t accepted it, until now. I tried giving it another try, again, and again. And again, and again I failed.
I just couldn’t get through it.
Perhaps it’s just me, I thought. But now, I’ve learnt to forgive myself; it’s the book. I just don’t like books like The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.
I only tried it because of two reasons: One, my book-freak cousin recommended it. Every time she spoke about the book, her eyes would sparkle with dream-like awe. She had warned be about the dull start, but she also told me how awesome it would get after that.
I never got to the interesting part. I couldn’t tolerate it that long.
Second reason: The title. I do this a lot. I judge a book by the cover, but more so by the title. And ever so often, I’ve been wrong. But I still stick to my instincts.
It was an attractive title. A story about a girl with a dragon tattoo. I like dragons, tattoos, and girls who get tattoos. I drooled at the title.
For all the drooling I did, the book disappointed me. With my cousin’s word, I had expected too much of the book. Perhaps it was my fault to set unrealistic expectations. Still, the fact is, I don’t like topics that the book addresses.
Of course, I enjoyed Lisbeth Salander’s attitude and arrogance. Sure, I could relate to Blomkvist’s thirst for recognition, but I did not enjoy the plot moving all over the place.
I’m uncomfortable with simultaneous subplots and empty scenes. A lot of slow-moving incidents threw me off the main plot, and I couldn’t find my way back with the same enthusiasm as before.
And so, I stopped reading The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. I wanted to like the book. Just like so many others. People kept saying how great the book was, tying it with the author’s sinister death.
I couldn’t see it, though. I couldn’t understand why it’s such a big deal. I tried, and I failed. And disappointed. I didn’t want to hate the book.
But shit happens.