But I had a conversation with my daughter, asking her when she gives up on books? After a certain page count? When the story jumps the shark in some way?
"I finish all my books. Even the ones I don't like."
"Why?"
"For two reasons; one - what if it gets better? And two - if it doesn't then at least I know that much."
Huh.
I asked her because I was reading this book and was considering stopping and donating it to our Little Free Library.
So I kept on. You know what? I still didn't like it. Now I know.
And it held so much promise too. Just look at that cover! A Han Solo wannabe lighting up a cig on the moon! A private eye no less. This could be campy fun.
I tried to be kind. It was published in 1981 after all. The Space Shuttle was still being tested in those days. There was very little common knowledge about orbital mechanics and the limits of the lifting capacity of rockets. Heck, dune buggies on the moon were the most advanced notions in those days.
And that's what got me. The fact that I was reading a 41 year old book. It had all the hard boiled detective stuff that I wanted but life in orbital space stations, the size of them, the materials lifted to create them AND how the author would often forget that he set a foot chase in zero G was too much for me.
It was a strange, strange read. There were other highly implausible plot points that just went beyond reason.
So was there value in reading beyond the point of giving up on a book? I must admit there is, now that it's over.
I kept asking myself, "Why am I still reading this?" Now that I've turned the last page, I can really appreciate it as a bad book. I know it is, because I read the whole thing.
Thank goodness it was only 216 pages.
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