The Modern Library 100

I started reading through this list back in 2007, but I've barely read since 2010.  I enjoyed reading through these books while it lasted, but eventually, I lost interest.  The problem is that I was reading so many books written in the same period and chosen by the same people.  I started to see their particular leanings and preferences, and I eventually lost respect for their ability to choose a book for its own sake.  I will definitely complete this list at some point, but it might take me another few years.

Some observations:

1.  People that claim that Ulysses is one of their favorite books are liars.  They are either lying to us, to            themselves, or both.  I have been reading 30-50 books each year for several years.  That's a pretty brisk clip of a book every 7-12 days.  Ulysses was abandoned on my shelf by a traveler passing through my house.  He was the smart one because it took me 5 or 6 weeks to plow through that thing.  I recall one night settling down to read for a few hours.  The progress?  Seven pages read.  I kept trying to get traction in that book, but in the end, I just started reading regardless of what I understood.  Please.  If you have ambitions to read this book, choose another.

2.  I have been so deliberate in my reading in the past. I have sworn that I would finish every book that I started, but I might be changing that.  After reading as much as I can for seven or so years, I started to realize how short my life is.  At this rate, I might be able to read two thousand or so books before I die.  That starts to seem real depressing when you realize that The Library of Congress has about 3.5 million books.  A friend recently alerted me to an Italian Proverb:  "There is no worse robber than a bad book."  I'm starting to come around to this point of view.

3.  The Way of All Flesh by Samuel Butler.  Now, that is a bad book.  I'm struggling to find words to suit this disaster of writing.  Even 'bad' seems generous.  It's inclusion at #12 in this list is enough to discredit the whole lot.  This book was written as a 'scathing' (They love that word!) attack upon Victorian morality . . . blah blah blah.  The author of this book actually stops the narrative over and over again to explain just what he meant by the previous section.  Doesn't that alone exclude it even from the category of decent writing?  NUMBER 12!?  Also, the book was actually written in 1898 (though it was first published later) so it's inclusion into the greatest novels of the 20th century seems even more agenda driven.