There’s an unwritten rule that says the literary world possesses certain books all authors must love and laud (even if secretly, they’ve never read them).
Just like a painter who doesn’t like Picasso or Monet, or a classical musician who doesn’t like Bach or Mozart, if an author doesn’t like a book that’s been deemed a classic, then he must be unrefined, or worse . . . uncivilized.
In my case I’d been wanting to read a particular book for a few years, not just because it was a book that I was interested in, but also because I heard other readers rave about this literary work, and it was oftentimes referenced by other authors in their books, articles, and essays, especially as it related to the current times we live in.
So, a few years ago I finally purchased the book, moved it from my to-read list to my currently reading list, sat down in a comfy chair, and prepared to embark on the incredible journey this book was sure to take me on — an adventure that many had traversed before me.
But there was only one problem.
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