Most of the books that lie on my shelves have been read all the way from the opening sentence all the way to the closing. Sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly; nevertheless, however long it's taken, I've always made it to the finish line.

Usually.

The clue is most because that means not all, and that's important.

There's a growing number that I've started in hope, eager to be stirred, and taken away from the mundane, only to lay them down unfinished, disappointed, wondering what I'm missing or not getting; and on occasion even mystified as to just why a particular book has the fan base it has, when, bluntly, it's unreadable.

Dostoyevsky's "The Idiot" joined that group yesterday. However hard I persevered, the story never opened up for me. I saw words, lot's of them, scurrying everywhere, but they were n't like little parties of ants forming up into tiny platoons of words, and marching the narrative along.

So I gave up