The DNF phenomenon

It is possible that some readers of this newspaper are, like I once was, in the habit of treating the worlds of the internet and that of “real” books as being in two wildly separate universes. I understand the temptation to do so: Given what the average internet commenter has to say about politics, sport, cinema and gender, one should not be interested in seeking out what the internet may have to say about books. Yet, of course, this is completely the wrong way to think about it; not just because even the otherwise grimy Indian section of the internet is awash with book blogs, review sites and so on, but because what is said about a book online — sometimes even before it is generally released — is increasingly important to publishers. In fact, it is perhaps the most important thing; enough people have been given book contracts purely because of the size of their social media following. In the book world online — as in anything online, really — the word “popularity” has a slightly different definition. It does not necessarily mean enthusiastic approval. It can, in fact, mean that a particular book is being targeted for vicious attack; which, this being the internet, will automatically produce furious defenders. The book will get talked about, which is what matters; for the real enemy is indifference. And indifference has a name, or at least an acronym: ‘DNF’. DNF is short for “did not finish”. There is no more potent criticism of a book, of course, than to admit that you did not finish it. Nobody admits that they did not finish genuinely important books, or ones that are being intensively discussed. To say online that a particular book is a DNF is to say not only that it is too boring for words, but also that it is so unimportant that you are willing to go on the record as saying that it is not worth the effort you would have to expend in order to finish it. It is a pretty layered insult, especially given that it has just three letters. The letters were first seen in sports summaries. If a golfer did not finish a round, or a marathoner dropped out at the half-way mark, his performance would be marked as ‘DNF’. As anyone who has slogged through a book with few redeeming qualities knows, the implicit comparison to gruelling physical exertion is extremely apt. On Goodreads — the beating heart of amateur — or secretly paidfor — online reviews, the “DNF” shelf has some revealing champions. Those on top include A Casual Vacancy, JK Rowling’s well- reviewed but glum post-Harry Potter novel, which I suppose was boosted to the top by Potter fanatics startled to discover their beloved JKR had given them a book carefully studying the machinations of aspirants to a small-town council. Others up there include books that have been made into TV shows — like Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander, which presumably fans of the show found too unwieldy, and, interestingly, Fifty Shades of Grey, which I presume many people picked up to discover what all the fuss was about and then found not to their taste. The DNF phenomenon is essentially a creature of the digital world. Of course, people have been abandoning the quest to complete reading a book forever; back when A Brief History of Time became a bestseller, it was widely supposed that most of its millions of buyers had not managed to finish it. But back when books were tangible things and a significant drain on one’s purse — here in India, particularly — there was real guilt associated with not finishing. When a book is a mass of data on your Kindle, bought at a deeply discounted price or free from Kindle Unlimited, that guilt is less puissant, at least among those of us from a digital-first generation. It no longer sits on your bookshelf reproving your lack of commitment. You are less likely to pick it up again a few weeks later to see if you had gotten it wrong the first time. I myself, presumably because I belong to the wrong generation, feel a modicum of shame if I give up on a book half-way, as if it is entirely my fault that I have done so. Many readers will have, as I do, memories of vacations that were considerably less enjoyable than they should have been because they also involved forcing yourself through a book that appeared objectively unreadable but that you had virtuously supposed when packing would be appropriate holiday reading. Slowly, however, I have tried to convince myself of the virtues of DNF-ing. Once you learn you can stop half-way, that no austere committee of reviewers and writers will immediately convene itself in your head to condemn your fickleness and lack of taste, your reading life is immeasurably improved. Try DNF- ing, you won’t regret it. Just another way that the internet has improved our life.

DNF is short for “did not finish”. There is no more potent criticism of a book, of course, than to admit that you did not finish it. Nobody admits that they did not finish genuinely important books, or ones that are being intensively discussed