I have always believed that before I can confidently claim I dislike a certain writer and consider his work painfully boring, for example, I should have read that work in question through. I believe too that it is a waste of my time. I’d rather read books I like. Yet I do it. I do it because I always have faith that perhaps I may come to like the book, perhaps it shall have parts that I will enjoy, chapters, lines that speak to me. Perhaps it will get better towards the end (it almost never does). When I finish it, I don’t feel that I have wasted my time. I feel I now know that this book and this author is clearly not my cup of tea. I feel I’m entirely entitled to my opinion and my judgement of the said work.
I don’t know if I’m wise or foolish for this. I’d accept both labels were they pinned on me.
I have lately come to believe – in the idealistic sphere of my brain – that before I can confidently claim I dislike or am bored by a certain person, I should get to know them and their motivations, their very heart and soul. I believe too that it could be a waste of my time. I’d rather associate with people I like. Yet I sometimes do it, not habitually as I do with books, but I do it. I do it because I believe I might come to like the person in the end, that they will turn out to have a host of good qualities, or a single remarkable trait that melts me. Perhaps that person will improve upon acquaintance. They usually do. And if they don’t, I can confidently claim that this person is a bad or dull person indeed. I cannot always afford to give everyone a chance, though. Time’s limited nature sets its restrictions, and for that I am sorry