I couldn't go on. I dug hard to extract the gems from Tristram Shandy. The excavating process wore me down and my eyes grew bloodshot as I read and reread paragraph after paragraph in search of the meaning behind Lawrence Sterne's words. I crawled slowly across page after page, laughing fairly often, but not nearly enough. At page 207, since I was already on my knees, I closed the book for the last time and buried it.*
What now? I thought. I recalled that a fellow blogger was reading Ayn Rand's book, Atlas Shrugged. With that in mind, I drove to the library and located the PRA-SEN section of bookshelves in the fiction area. Rand's earlier book, Fountainhead, sat elbow to elbow with her aforementioned volume. I can't recall my reasoning as I stood with both books before me, but I chose Fountainhead. Perhaps it had something to do with a desire to read the books in the order they were written. Yes, I believe that thought crossed my mind and directed me.*
So far, I'm sailing along without the consternation I endured with that "other" book. My current book choice isn't exactly a walk in the park considering it claims 727 pages. Since I'm not participating in a triathlon this year, reading Fountainhead will be my 2010 endurance test.*
Why, why can't I read like a normal person? Why can't I pick up a lightweight recent bestseller and totally enjoy the time I spend with it?*
Don't be honest with your answers; please spare me the truth. I tend to be quite fragile and sensitive.