I really liked the idea of this book. I was searching for a copy of Malory’s Morte d’Arthur and came across this one, “written” by John Steinbeck. I thought it was interesting: who knew that Steinbeck had done anything with King Arthur? I got it from the library, and perused the introduction. It turns out that Steinbeck hated reading until an aunt gave him a copy of Mallory, and it was because of that book that Steinbeck became who he did. He wanted so much to “translate” it into common vernacular, so he took it upon himself to go to England, study the manuscripts and create a version of the work of his own.

However, he never finished it. This was published after his death, in 1976, with a series of letters from Steinbeck to his agent and editor about the process. I found both the introduction and the letters fascinating.

But. (You knew there would be one, didn’t you?)

When it came to the actual reading of the tales, I was bored out of my skull. I won’t say that it was Steinbeck’s — or even Mallory’s — fault, because there was a part of me that was intrested to see the origins of all the novels I’ve enjoyed. I just realized about 100 pages in that I like the novelizations. I like to have my mythical characters have motivations, and conversations, and to be more fleshed out than they were in this telling. (For the same reason, I don’t really like Greek myths, although Hubby and M tell me I’m missing out.) And since my time is better spent reading something I really like, I abandoned it.

If you’re interested in Arthurian legends on an intellectual level (or you handle myths in pure form better than I do), this really is an interesting way to read it, especially if you can’t get your hands on a good version of Le Morte d’Arthur. It’s just not for me.