It is not very often that I find Greg Sheridan's column in The Australian edifying, but I felt more than a little self-satisfied when I read this incidental jibe within his piece about the Salman Rushdie-Knighthood controversy:
"Either Rushdie has the right to pen his boring books even when they are offensive, or he does not".
Wow, the Emperor really does have no clothes.
To be fair, I have not actually read The Satanic Verses. I have, however, endured 50-odd pages of the soporific sludge that is Midnight's Children. It started me thinking about all the other tedious tripe I have encountered in my adult life.
My top five boring books of all time are:
- Salman Rushdie's Midnight's Children.
- V.S. Naipaul's A House for Mr Biswas.
- George Eliot's The Mill on the Floss.
- Tim Winton's Dirt Music.
- Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre.
Like Midnight's Children, all of these books were required reading for university units. I am probably going to cop flak from some feminist with hairy armpits for including Charlotte Bronte on the list and perhaps I do have some cultural prejudices. On the other hand, I am too old to be ashamed of being male, middle-class and white.
I tag all the people who read this blog (and anyone who leaves a comment) to make their own list. You know who you are.