I wrote a curmudgeonly post on books I could not finish, and it is only fair I write a non-curmudgeonly post on what books are the opposite, that is, books I could not not-finish.
This is a harder question for me to answer. My reading tastes were developed in my youth, when I had an abundance of time to read: so my practice was to read certain books five or ten times over and over again.
But asking what books I could not put down is different from asking which ones I read and re-read, and which are enshrined in my memory in a fane of gold.
So let me answer the question backwards. Instead of saying which books I loved (and anyone familiar with the field can tell from whom I am stealing my ideas and themes) let me list only the books I loved despite their obvious flaws.
I am not going to mention Jack Vance or Gene Wolfe or C.S. Lewis or Ursula K LeGuin or any other author that I can read with undiminished pleasure as an adult whom I first loved as a twelve-year-old.
I am not going to talk about books I could not put down because they hypnotized me, as did VOYAGE TO ARCTURUS, or books I could not put down because I was sure I would never read anything remotely like it again, like THE WORM OROBOROS.
I am only talking about page-turners. These are books which, if I had the taste and good sense of a man of letters, I would be ashamed to like, but, like Belle being attracted to the Beast, I am still swept off my feet despite that my Beau eats venison raw.
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