My Favorite Book, My Least Favorite Book

When I reached the final page of I Know This Much Is True, I started crying. I was at the end of 897 wonderful pages. My husband wondered aloud just how sad the ending could be. He didn’t understand. I wasn’t crying over the plot, I was crying because it was over, because I couldn’t look forward to another late night of reading Wally Lamb’s words. I am sure I was either pregnant or PMSing as this is not normal behavior, but there you have it. This book was so good, I went into a state of depression that I could never again read it for the first time. Oprah loved it too.

The opposite of this is my experience reading Freedom. Oprah loved it. Critics loved it. My sister loved it. As she and I usually agree on great reads, I was shocked when 1/4 of the way in, I wanted to light it on fire. Oh, the joy it would’ve given me to watch all 562 pages burn. Sorry Jonathan Franzen, but you got plenty of acclaim. This just wasn’t for me. I don’t think I was smart enough for it. It was worse than an organic chemistry text, and for you non-science majors, those are pretty painful. I didn’t care about the plot. I didn’t care about the characters. I beat my poor sister up over it daily and when it was over, I felt like I had just been released from prison. Why didn’t I just put it down, you might ask. Because, I’m no quitter.