I was in a surly disposition last week – and I’m just gonna go ahead and blame it on the fact that I was reading Robinson Crusoe. You know it’s a bad sign when the main character of the story threatens to off himself within the first 60 pages or so and you’re thinking, “We could only be so lucky, because then the book could END!”
I must say, I feel totally duped. I’ve always heard about Robinson Crusoe, shipwrecked on an island. I was thinking valiant adventurer – what I got was total cad. He treated Friday like some sort of animal and he killed kittens! Granted, he did eventually acknowledge Friday as the better man – as if that wasn’t totally obvious – but he KILLED KITTENS! Add to that insipid writing and you’ve got one painful read. Seriously. Two hundred and ninety-seven pages seemed like a million. By the end, I was actually trying to think of things I could do rather than read … maybe clean a toilet or two, or schedule in a root canal.
And so the question begs to be asked: why – oh why – is this considered a classic? And don’t tell me it’s because of the Christian themes or my head will explode. My head, will explode. And let’s face it – you don’t need that on your conscience.