Although I’ve loved reading since I was three, I have to be fully honest in admitting that in college I rarely read for pleasure. Moreover, when I did so it was often a biography, some form of inspirational/self-help book, or (perhaps most despicably) trashy chick lit. With that in mind, it had been a while since I’d really read literature outside a classroom.
Thus, I think it’s fair then that I had difficulty getting through One Hundred Years of Solitude this summer. Though beautifully written with rich language and vivid description, the novel at first failed to incite a “must keep reading” passion within me. I’d forgotten how sometimes one has to actually, you know, think while reading literature, pondering the symbolism behind characters and plot. Go figure. Much to the chagrin of my boyfriend, who ranks the book as one of his favorites, it took me months to finish. Confession: I also read a few books in between…
The point though is that the last thirty pages (which were finished last week) stirred in me what the first 300 or so had not, and I was left at the book’s end wanting to start it again from the beginning. Obviously I would have loved to be hooked the whole way through. Ultimately, I was content to just be able to say I finished it and looked forward to reading it again with greater appreciation.
Have you ever struggled to finish a book? What kept you going or prompted you to call it quits?