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It’s time for a literary poll. Illiterates need not participate.

Proposed: The classic novel Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott is quite possibly the most boring book ever written, English language or otherwise. Discussion is now open.

This topic has been a bone of contention between Stacey and I for most of the 20 years of our marriage. My wife is what you would call a bibliophile. From the day she was old enough to read, she has never willingly gone a day without reading several pages of something, preferably one of the classics. In high school, she never had to worry about the required reading lists because she had already read everything on them. She knows which Star Trek episodes are ripoffs of which Shakespeare plays. She reads the Brontë sisters (all of them) for fun.

I therefore consider her to be something of a casual authority on English literature. This makes it even harder for me to believe that she would call Ivanhoe “romantic and exciting.” It’s like calling distilled water “refreshing.”

As for me? I wouldn’t recognize a literary reference if it came up and bit me on Od’s bodkin. While I consider myself a well-read fellow, most of my recreational reading is centered on authors who are still alive, if for no other reason so I can harass them in email if I don’t like the ending. I have read quite a few of the classics, and I thoroughly enjoyed exactly two of them: The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas, and Grendel by John Gardner. (I’m sure a psychologist could have a field day with this information). The rest of my exposure to the classics has been at the point of a teacher’s grading pencil. To this day, the name “John Steinbeck” is enough to send me scurrying for the safety of the Mack Bolan section of the bookstore.

Please understand that I am not a total rube. I enjoy good Shakespeare, and I can even recite my fair share of Polonius proverbs. However, Shakespeare was meant to be performed, not read. One can only take so many repetitions of the word “exeunt” before turning to the comic book version. I have similar problems with classical “adventure” books. An adventure story should dip and soar like an eagle on the wind, yet so many of these “adventures” get bogged down in descriptions of names, places, and heraldry devices. Which brings us back to Ivanhoe.

I have attempted a complete read-through of Ivanhoe no less than seven times in my life. I have yet to make it past the halfway point, which proves that my survival instinct is well intact. I fear that an attempt to push for the third act would see me waking up in the intensive care ward.

I know there’s a great story buried in there somewhere. How do I know this? Why, like any good American, I saw the movie. Two versions, in fact — the classic 1952 film by Richard Thorpe, and the surprisingly good television miniseries from 1982, which starred Olivia Hussey and a bunch of other people not nearly as stunningly attractive as she was. The movies had it all — action, suspense, intrigue, romance, and John Rys-Davies on a horse (he was a lot lighter back then).

Obviously, the screenwriters must have taken some liberties with the text. I’ve looked (seven times) and if all that adventure stuff is really there, it’s so mired in narrative, background, and historical context that it would even slow the metabolism of Robin Williams. My wife hears me say these things and thinks I’m a complete Philistine. Hey, at least they were born too early to be assigned Ivanhoe in their Humanities classes.

However, never let it be said that I’m not willing to learn something new. I have decided, therefore, to attempt yet another reading of that fine, fine piece of literature known as Ivanhoe. I’ll even start it right here, in front of my loyal readers, so you can be witnesses to my resolve.

Okay, here goes. Ivanhoe, page one. “In that pleasant district of merry England which is watered by the river Don, there extended in ancient times a large forest, covering the greater part of the beautiful hills and valleys which lie between Sheffield and the pleasant town of Doncaster. The remains of this extensive wood are still to be seen at the noble seats of Wentworth, of Warncliffe Park, and atta boysa uphna nagle grep asr uzza gmr humma hum hmm mph mumsz mmm…”

ZZZZzzzzzz.

If it’s popular and appeals to children, then by God there must be something wrong with it. Entertainment Weekly has named Eldest by Christopher Paolini as “the worst novel of 2005.” Reviewer Jennifer Reese says that she has “not for many a year read anything so mind-numbingly silly.”

For those not in the know, Eldest is a fantasy novel, sequel to the wildly successful Eragon, published in 2003 when author Paolini was 17 years old. Whatever celebration he chooses to toast his early success, it cannot legally involve champagne. But as the saying goes, you can’t argue with success, and he has undoubtedly succeeded.

Both novels are aimed at teen readers, although like the similary-marketed Harry Potter books, they have developed quite a sizeable adult audience. Therein lies the rub — when adults start messing around in the children’s playground, sooner or later they start thinking that the swings and teeter-totters are a little too boring, and the next thing you know there’s a Starbucks next to the slide.

Just where do adults get off for chiding a kid’s book for failing to meet adult standards? Do we really want all the Beverly Cleary’s and Louis Sachar’s of the world to write like John Grisham or Danielle Steele? Ms. Reese calls Eldest on the carpet for failing where Lord of the Rings succeeded. Talk about your high expectations — by that standard, Neil Simon is a failure because he doesn’t write like William Shakespeare.

To be utterly fair to Entertainment Weekly, I have not read Eldest. However, my 12-year old son and my wife have read it. When confronted with this stunning verdict from Ms. Reese, my son, who by the way has read Lord of the Rings, said that the reviewer wouldn’t know a good book “if it hit her on the behind.” That’s good enough for my book-buying dollar.