Visualize this: a log chipper and my copy of Moby Dick. In she goes. Halleluiah, I've given it up. No more rereading paragraphs that put me to sleep. No more fretting over my lack of enthusiasm. I officially will not, ever, in my lifetime, or within the span of eternity, finish Moby Dick.
Right now, it's sitting at the bottom of a stack of much better books (including Julian Barnes' Pulse, a collection of stories). It languishes alongside several others that I've read or am excited to read. I even added to that stack several self-help titles (which I hardly ever read *yawn*), and they were more exciting than Moby Dick.
I wasn't expecting excitement. I wasn't expecting it to be a page-turner. Heck, I didn't know what to expect, but whatever it didn't deliver, it didn't deliver. I understand everyone has an opinion. Share it if you want. I may go to literary hell for publicly pronouncing my blase attitude about Melville's classic work. It just didn't speak to me. It was self-torture to continue. I give myself permission not to go forth. Ah, that feels better.