I tried. I’ve been trying all year. But I can’t do it.
I picked up this hardcover behemoth for $4 at one of those budget remainder shops near Sydney’s central station about 15 years ago. I’ve been lugging it around the world with me ever since, swearing to myself that one day I’d find the motivation and the discipline to tackle it.
After having some success with Moby Dick last year, I thought I was ready. But after struggling through the first 200 pages, I’m certain: this may be one of the most important and magisterial novels in the history of literature, but it’s not for me. I’ve never known boredom quite like this.
Life’s too short, unlike this book. Goodbye Leo.