Recently I made the mistake of taking William Faulkner‘s “As I Lay Dying” off the shelf and thinking, “Hm. Looks short. Probably can read it over the weekend.”
Four months later – I’m only up to page 68.
Which left me puzzled. I mean I read a lot, so my struggles with Faulkner weren’t rooted in me not having the time to spend with him. And the chapters are remarkably quick, the shortest being five words long.
All things considered, “As I Lay Dying” should have clipped along at the pace of an airport novella.
Except that it didn’t. The book turned out to be one of the most complicated things I’d ever read.