For me there are eight levels of how much I like a book.
One. I can’t read it. I just can’t. I mean, I’ll try if I really have to, but after reading the same paragraph half a dozen times, I’m just going to give up and google my way to a summary. It’s so extraordinary bad that I just can’t read it. My brain goes on a strike as soon as I try. It’s figuratively holding up a small sign saying “What do we want? Entertainment. When do we want it? Now!”
Two. I don’t want to read it. This is the part where my brain and I are sitting at opposite sides of the negotiation table, trying to work something out. My brain is threatening to go on another strike, but I successfully calm her down by promising her entertainment right after this one last job. Sure, neither…
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