
One of The Books That Has Most Influenced Me Was One I Hated
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Maybe you’ve seen the book challenge that’s been rocketing around Facebook lately: for a week, you post a book cover every day of a book that’s impacted your life (and tag someone, if that’s your bag).
It feels like everyone I know has been doing this challenge for the last month, and my feed has been filled with childhood reads and favorite books for weeks. But when someone finally tagged me I realized that some of my biggest life-changers, the reads that really influenced me, weren’t books I’d loved. They were the ones I hated.
Case in point, I despise V. by Thomas Pynchon.
I hate everything about that book.
I hate the way it was introduced to me (given to me by a guy I was seeing, who felt I should read it before picking up Gravity’s Rainbow, as I’d planned to do).
I hate that I read it anyhow, twice, because I didn’t trust my own opinion of the book the first time. (I was young.)
I hate that despite the fact I’ve read it twice, I cannot remember anything about it but a ricer, something about Egypt, and a plausibly deniable misogyny that pervades the entire book and that I just could not talk to my friend the Pynchon fan about because trying to talk about it was like trying to find cockroaches in the dark with a flashlight — they’re definitely there but you can’t catch them with the beam.
As much as I hated V., though, it’s a hugely important book for me that’s impacted the way I’ve read ever since. But not for the reasons that the book’s fans might assume:

- It taught me a lot about what I don’t like in a book and why.
- It taught me that it’s fine to think a highly-regarded book is hot garbage.
- It taught me to avoid people who discount your opinion of a book by saying “you missed the point – read it again” or “dig deeper” or whatever other ridiculous things people will say when you don’t like the books they love.