If this had been the first book I'd ever read, I'd have never read another

I own exactly one book whose cover bears Oprah's golden seal of approval. I own this book because its author caused an uproar by politely declining his invitation into her sorority, was later snubbed by the Pulitzer and finally awarded the National Book Award. Thousands of covers had already been printed before he made his announcement, and I found them remaindered and couldn't bear to see them that way, so I bought one. I'm not a hater -- I love every single thing that Oprah has done for reading in America, save defacing perfectly good covers. And yes, I've read many of her selections, both before and after she chose them. But I've never read a one whose cover bore her name.

I had to explain this to the good folks at Borders the Saturday before last: that I needed a copy of The Pillars of the Earth but that if the only ones they had were Oprah's, they could go ahead and forget about it.

Here is how I came to read this book: I was dragging my feet in finishing Brideshead and freaking out about what would come next. There was this real sense of urgency (not uncommon for me) in needing to know what I would console myself with once Brideshead was done. As I said before, it was Saturday, and naturally, I was watching non-stop coverage of the Olympics, like any other legitimate American. The men's road race was on at the time, and as I watched the peloton slowly climb into the mountains above Beijing, nearing the Great Wall, I was overcome with the desire to read a huge novel that dealt with people who were swept up in something larger than life. And because I don't know of anything off the top of my head that's about the Great Wall itself, and it seemed like too much effort to google or wiki anything, I settled on Ken Follett's The Pillars of the Earth. It had a very pretty cover and a lovely title and was about something that strikes me as infinitely fascinating -- building a medieval cathedral. Plus, I was under the impression that it was a really good book and had been wanting to read it for a longish time.

So, off I went. The prologue held my attention. I felt, if not affection, a certain interest in the initial characters. It wasn't great writing by any means, but it was simple and it was solid, and I thought, maybe the writing will begin to take shape with the cathedral itself.

My rule is that before I allow myself to abandon them, I give troublesome books 100 pages.

And I would have really appreciated it if Pillars's editor would have given me the same courtesy. But if there ever was an editor, it seems they didn't make it out of the gate. I am trying so hard to like this monster, but right now, I'm galled by it.

For starters (and this was my first clue) it had like three (three!) endorsements in the opening pages. Three. The book was published almost a decade ago and was (even before Oprah's magic wand) Ken Follett's best-selling work, and they could only come up with three endorsements? Secondly, the book opens with the Prologue and then Part One followed by Chapter 1 (as in the number). Chapter 1 the number is followed by II, as in the Roman numeral. Which is then followed by III, IV and V. These are followed by Chapter 2. Which is then followed by II and III and so on. Am I missing something? Is this some literary device I'm ignorant of? Is it really so hard to stick with one or the other?

One reviewer I'd read had commented on the novel's gratuitous sex and how it was slightly off putting. I rarely find sex gratuitous and think mostly, what we need is more of it in fiction. (Or in Christopher Nolan's Batman trilogy. Please?) But the first sex scene in this book is so cringe-awful that I will not even dignify it with a spoiler alert. Don't ask me what Ken Follett was thinking when he had a woman semi rape a starving, half-dead-with-grief man in a clearing in the forest, while his recently motherless children slept nearby. And let's not forget that this man is still covered in his dead wife's blood, that she isn't 12 hours in the ground, that he's just committed infanticide and likely hasn't showered in months or brushed his teeth in, I don't know, ever? It doesn't matter how barking horny you are, or how the security of the rest of your life depends on seducing this one man, no one, not even a two dimensional stock character, does this.

It gets worse.

After this grotesque coupling, Follett commits the cardinal sin. Exposition, exposition, exposition. He has a chance here to make another play for me, the reader, by showing and not telling. We've been told for the past 100 pages. All's I want is to be shown a little bit. Instead, Follett writes: "Tom was no less bemused. Life was moving too fast for him to take in all the changes. It was like being on the back of a runaway horse: everything happened so quickly that there was no time to react to events, and all he could do was hold on tightly and try to stay sane." After this little gem, where he's stated the same thing multiple times, Follett then gives us a play-by-play of all the changes that have just happened so fast to poor Tom. Because, presumably, we weren't paying attention when we were told the first time.

And then! Then we find out that the baby has really lived. Zing! It didn't die in the forest on its mother's grave after all! Previously, before the baby is left to die, it is twice described as having dark luxurious hair, like its dead mother's. Two or three pages later, the baby is bald. Look, I don't care if the kid has flying squirrels growing out of it's skull, just be consistent. If you make a point to tell us something about a character, stick with it.

Also, within the first 164 pages the phrase "hot body" appears. Twice. Just to be clear: the phrase "hot body" has no place in historical fiction.

And yet, I think I could get over all of this. The abysmal writing. The weird chapter numbering. The creepy sex. I could look past it if the characters were in any way engaging or compelling. If they weren't dull as hell. The other cardinal rule of writing? Never bore the reader. Derrick Jensen has told his writing students that they ought to aim to write things that are so good he'd rather read them than make love. Well. I would rather engage in the kind of horrifying sex act I just described than read another page of this beast.

OMG, I'm so depressed at how much I don't like this book. And I have over 900 pages to go.

At least I have Michael Phelps.

Ed. Note: there were four endorsements, not three as I had remembered. BFD.