Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackeray. I came across it when I was perusing my local bookstore for a copy of Barry Lyndon, the film of which I had enjoyed so much. But it's the same thing over and over. There was even a 15 or 16 line sentence in it describing the physical and mental growth of a teenage boy, far too descriptive for my liking and I've read plenty of Turgenev.
Pale Fire by Vladimir Nabokov. I enjoyed the poem and the first few chapters of the imaginary analysis by the imaginary editor were good, but it gets damn well confusing when he keeps going on about Zembla.
Dubliners by James Joyce. It didn't have the same flair as Ulysses and Portrait of the Artist or the genius of Finnegans Wake. It bored me to tears. Maybe it was the absence of Dedalus.
Twenty Thousand Leagues Under The Sea by Jules Verne. I suspect I laid it to rest half way because the descriptions of their nightly seafood banquets was too much.
Swann's Way by Marcel Proust. It's a lovely book but the exciting moments are too few and far between. It is a pity that I have that all six novels sitting on my bookshelf right now. I hope to finish it one day.
What are yours? Please remember to explain why you think you couldn't finish it.










