Have you ever regretted reading a book — which one and why?

The Book I Wish I Hadn’t Read: When a Bad Book Becomes a Good Lesson

Have you ever regretted reading a book?

It is an odd question, especially for someone who loves books. We are usually taught that every book has something to offer. Read widely, we are told. Never judge a book by its cover. A book is a friend. And, as someone who has spent a considerable part of his life reading and writing, I have always believed that even an imperfect book can leave behind an interesting thought.

But there are books that do something rather different.

They leave you wondering why you did not spend those six hours talking to a friend, listening to music, watching the sunset—or simply doing absolutely nothing.

For me, one such book was Fifty Shades of Grey by E. L. James.

Now, before anyone objects, let me make one thing clear: this is not a judgement on the author or on the millions of readers who enjoyed the book. Literature is intensely personal. What bores one reader may fascinate another. What one person considers profound, another may find unbearable.

My regret was simply this:

I finished it.

And that, perhaps, was my first mistake.

Curiosity is a dangerous reader

I picked up the book partly because of its extraordinary popularity. When a book becomes a worldwide phenomenon, curiosity takes over.

What is everyone talking about?

Why has this book become such a sensation?

What makes millions of people turn its pages?

These questions are irresistible to a reader.

So I began.

And then I waited.

I waited for the great revelation.

I waited for the extraordinary writing that had apparently captivated the world.

I waited for the characters to develop into people I could care about.

Most importantly, I waited for the story to become the story everyone claimed it was.

Instead, I found myself increasingly aware of the clock.

That is never a good sign.

The tyranny of the unfinished book

There is a peculiar psychological trap associated with reading.

Once we have invested an hour in a book, we feel compelled to finish it.

Another chapter.

Just another fifty pages.

Surely it will improve.

Perhaps the author is building towards something.

Perhaps the great moment is just around the corner.

This is the literary equivalent of waiting for a delayed train because you have already spent twenty minutes on the platform.

At some point, you should ask yourself whether the train is actually coming.

Yet readers are stubborn creatures.

We suffer from what I call the sunk-cost syndrome of literature.

We think:

“I’ve already read 150 pages. I can’t possibly stop now.”

Why not?

There are thousands of wonderful books waiting patiently on the shelf.

No book is entitled to your time merely because you have started reading it.

But did I really regret reading it?

Interestingly, the answer is both yes and no.

Yes, because I felt that the time could have been spent more profitably.

No, because even a disappointing book teaches us something.

It teaches us about our own taste.

It reminds us that popularity and quality are not necessarily the same thing.

It teaches us that millions of readers can adore something that leaves us completely cold.

And perhaps most importantly, it teaches us the liberating art of putting down a book.

I learnt that lesson rather late.

Today, I have no guilt about abandoning a book.

If the characters fail to speak to me, I leave them behind.

If the prose feels like wading through wet cement, I escape.

If the story has stopped making me curious, I close the book.

Life is too short to finish every book we begin.

The books we love are different

The books that stay with us are rarely the ones we merely finish.

They are the ones we continue thinking about after we have closed them.

A good book follows you.

You read a sentence in the morning and remember it at night.

A character becomes almost like an old acquaintance.

A philosophical idea quietly changes the way you see the world.

Sometimes a book does not entertain you at all—it disturbs you.

And that can be even more valuable.

Some books make us laugh.

Some make us cry.

Some make us question.

Some make us uncomfortable.

And a precious few change us.

Those are the books we keep.

Not necessarily on our shelves, but somewhere inside ourselves.

Perhaps the worst book can also be useful

Looking back, I would not say that reading Fifty Shades of Grey was completely wasted time.

It gave me something quite valuable: perspective.

It reminded me that reading is not a competition.

We do not receive medals for finishing difficult books.

There is no literary police waiting outside the bedroom asking, “Did you finish Volume III?”

A reader has the right to say:

“This isn’t for me.”

And walk away.

That is not intellectual arrogance.

It is intellectual honesty.

So, would I read it again?

Absolutely not.

Once was enough.

In fact, if I ever find myself tempted to revisit it, I shall immediately reach for a book by Tolstoy, Tagore, Premchand—or perhaps simply a collection of old Hindi songs.

At least they won’t make me wonder whether I have accidentally misplaced several hours of my life.

But perhaps that is the real paradox of reading.

Even a book we regret reading can teach us which books we should read instead.

And sometimes, discovering what you don’t like is almost as important as discovering what you love.

So yes, I have regretted reading a book.

But I have never regretted being a reader.

Because somewhere between the wonderful books, the disappointing books, the unfinished books and the books we wish we had never opened, we gradually discover something much more important:

We discover ourselves.

And that, I think, is the greatest book of all.