In a village in La Mancha, the name of which I cannot quite recall, there lived not long ago one of those country gentlemen or hidalgos who keep a lance in a rack, an ancient leather shield, a scrawny hack and a greyhound for coursing.
The Result: Failure with a capital F. The book rambles on for 982 pages, 100 of which I read before I put the book down. Simply put, nothing ever happens. This book is in my opinion one of those works of scholarly value but little entertainment. It wasn't even thought-provoking to me. I can see why it's important; it's the first "modern" novel (by modern, 1605), but you could basically skip a hundred pages and keep reading and be fine. You wouldn't miss anything. Don Quixote and Sancho Panza basically go around fighting different perceived evils, and that's all. I realize this isn't a full review, but since I didn't finish the book or even get a quarter through, I think it's as much as I'm entitled to.
I'm not reselling my copy because it's a good work to have. Maybe when I'm older, I'll enjoy it more. Until then, I'm not going to waste my time trying to finish this one. I'm sure there's something redeeming about that I just couldn't get.
Next Big, Big, Big, Big Book will probably be The Origin of Species.
982 pages, 2 stars.
DNF.
DNF.
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