So the other day Yann and I were talking about food (as one does here) and the in-laws. The conversation centered around the kiwi question, which is as follows:
I do not particularly like kiwis, but neither do I particularly dislike them. I am happy to eat a kiwi which is placed in front of me, without objection or disgust, but I do not necessarily take great pleasure in eating them either. They're fine. They're moyen. They're edible, but I wouldn't cross the street for one.
I am unable to successfully communicate this position to my mother-in-law, who dedicates considerable time to spoiling us both, particularly on the food front. She continues to think I don't like kiwi, and that I should never have to eat one, having only and always things I like better to eat (they are legion).
In discussing the kiwi question with Yann, he suggested that this is perhaps a small but important cultural difference. He argues that the French, dedicated to good food and non-puritanical about the harmless pleasures of the body, see no reason why each and every thing you eat should not fall well above the limit of "it's okay but not my favorite" and belong instead to the category "YUM!" That, in fact, I should not have to eat kiwi when so many better options are available. That "meh" may not be the same as disgusting, but it's nonetheless not good enough.
And indeed, leaving aside the case of finishing something so as to not waste food, which I do think is a virtue, I think he and his mother and the French are right, and I and the diet-shake drinking, mcdonald's eating, if you don't eat it now you'll see it again at goûter you'll eat it whether you like it or not choke it down already american model are, perhaps, wrong.
Why do I talk to you of kiwis and in-laws? Because this book, my friends, is a kiwi. And I think perhaps it is time that I integrated, left book puritanism (I've never left a book unfinished no matter how bad!!!!) behind me, and ditched all that is not wondrous, delightful, delicious. I think it is time to take Iain Pears, and quite possibly the bulk of mainstream historical fiction, back to the library from whence it came, admit I won't finish it, blame neither the book nor myself, and move on with my life. I just counted, and this year, so far, I have met 15 new authors, all of whom have filled me with delight and happiness. I think my time is perhaps better spent with them.