For the past few years I have peppered my reading with rereads from my youth. It has been even more rewarding than I anticipated. So far, my rereads have all been books I enjoyed when I first read them. But this time I decided to reread a book I did not enjoy at all.
Why would I do such a silly thing with my limited reading time? Well, let’s say it was an experiment. The only things I remembered about Trouble with Lichen, besides the general premise and a few random details, were that I didn’t like it, didn’t understand it, and couldn’t wait for it to be over.
It was mainly the fact that I didn’t fully understand it that made me curious to reread it. As a child, I was an above average reader, but naturally my reading skills continued to develop through adulthood as well, so the way I read now is obviously superior to the way I read decades ago. I wanted to see if I would like the book now that I could fully understand it.
As it turns out, I am in agreement with my younger self about how tedious this novel is. If this had not been an experiment, I would have abandoned it after the first chapter or two. But I wanted to carry out the experiment, so I persevered. Once my younger self’s taste was vindicated, I focused on putting my finger on why it was so boring to me both then and now.
I know one of the factors in my earlier dislike of the novel was that I was expecting something quite different from what I got. That of course is not a factor in my current dislike. I have learned not to evaluate a book based on what I thought it would be rather than what it actually is. This is a lesson I try to impart to my students (and anyone else who wanders past my soapbox while I’m pontificating).
If I order minestrone for dessert because I think it sounds like the name of a pastry, I’m going to be disappointed. But I shouldn’t pronounce it a bad dessert. It’s not the soup’s fault that I was expecting pastry. It might be a perfectly delicious soup that I would have enjoyed as an appetizer had I known what it was. And so it is with books.
My younger self’s lack of understanding was likely due to an inability to let go of my expectations. But even if I had let go of those expectations, there was still the other factor in my dislike: the novel itself. Reading it with an open mind this time, I felt that the writing style was painfully didactic.
“After an hour and a half, and a good luncheon, Francis, quite restored, led them back to his study to continue his disquisition” (57).
At least the characters being subjected to this disquisition got a good luncheon. I got nothing. I think I at least deserve some avocado toast (and maybe a cup of minestrone) for having put up with this book.
As much as this novel was a chore to finish, I will give Wyndham credit for two things. I do like the premise of the story. I think it was poorly executed, but I can see what drew me to the book in the first place. I also appreciate his feminist message, although it was heavy-handed and downright preachy at times.
And what of my experiment? Unfortunately, rereading this did not help me connect with my younger self the way some of my other rereads did. I thought that perhaps even if I disliked the book the second time around, the experience of rereading it would stir up something meaningful like a memory or an insight, even a vague one. But it didn’t really do anything.
Nevertheless, no experiment is ever really a failure because even without producing the desired results, something is learned and what I learned from this reread is that even though I have grown up and my reading skills have grown with me, I’m still that same girl who was fascinated by the idea of a longevity drug and the philosophical implications of such a discovery.