I pick it up. I feel through the pages for the dog-eared one and begin again. I read two pages and have only a shy comprehension of the words I just read. It should be interesting–it’s a beautiful picture of a lonely man in a foreign country caught in love with someone who loves for a living. I’m uninterested. I press on. I’m half way through the book.
And now here I am, forcing something just to finish. I’m wound tight in the idea that if I hold out a little longer, read one more chapter, I’ll get it, feel it. But I know better. Life is strange and scintillating and above all, finite. There are some things to press through, to see to the end. Shitty novels are not one of them.