Last year, I happened to read two books that I really didn’t like. A few years ago, I might have given up halfway through, but since I was reading both books for the Book Club, that wasn’t an option. It was a strange feeling. The first of the two books almost made me angry. I didn’t like the writing, and I couldn’t relate to the characters at all. It felt like a kind of torture to live in the shoes of a resentful person, in the first case, and of an overprotective and manipulative mother, in the second.

When I read that first book, which I really didn’t like, I had a discussion with my sister about the criteria we might use to determine that we didn’t like a book. One of them struck us as particularly relevant: that we wouldn’t recommend the book to anyone. And, in fact, I haven’t recommended—nor do I intend to recommend—either of those books to anyone. However, this aspect speaks only of my experience as a reader, that is, of the pleasure of reading. If I consider the literary perspective or the exploration of the human experience, it is possible to say, ‘I didn’t like the book, but even so, I learnt something.’ The truth is that the first book, in particular, sparked a fantastic discussion. And, in the case of the second book, the narrator really brings to life the kind of love that particular mother feels – such an obsessive desire to protect her daughter, from her point of view, that she’ll stop at nothing, including provoking the event that leads to her daughter’s separation from her husband.

It’s easier when we read a book that teaches us to overcome difficulties, to understand empathy and compassion for others, and to find inspiration in the fight against injustice. But this, after all, speaks only to who I am as a reader. I read so that I can marvel at words, but also because I want to believe in the good in humanity. I like reading about characters who see the beauty in life despite suffering, about wise characters, deep loves, stories of questioning, struggle and discovery. Sometimes I find the stories I need in literary fiction, in the great novels so to speak; other times, in a fantasy story. There are authors whose writing dazzles me, with the story taking a back seat; there are others who move me with their sensitivity and the kind of characters they create; and there are still others who lift my spirits and encourage me to keep fighting for a better world.

As a reader, it’s easier to get swept up in a novel I can relate to, but reading a book you don’t like is like having a debate with someone whose ideals are very different from your own – and sometimes that’s necessary too. In the end, we may well stick to our guns, but we listen to the other person, we understand what bothers us so much about their viewpoint, and we even learn a little more about ourselves. Those two books I read last year bothered me, but they also reaffirmed the importance of certain values that are fundamental to me. No, I don’t like to harbour resentment; I think resentment is one of the ugliest feelings or emotions in humanity; it makes us selfish, closed off within ourselves, and prevents us from living. And no, I don’t consider it healthy to over-protect children. To love them deeply, yes; to cherish them deeply, yes; to go to the ends of the earth for our children, always—but to protect them to the point of suffocating them, preventing them from living their own lives? No, I could never defend that.

After all, when we read a book we don’t like, a lot happens.