On a lazy, rainy Sunday in London, I decided to take the tube to St Pancras, buy a book and read it over a cup of coffee. I went into Hatchards planning to get Possession by A.S. Byatt, which was sold out. Instead I bought The Alchemist and Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass. I read a few pages, switched to Leaves of Grass and, save for an attempt or two, did not feel any inclination to pick it up for four months.
It took me over four months to finish this 160 page legend. That about says enough I believe. I did not like the writing style, the overal tone of the book, the characterisation. I almost feel as if I have somehow missed the entire point of this book, why everyone thinks it is so wonderful. I cannot put my finger on what it was specifically. Almost wished I just got it from the library. Shame really, but that goes to show; reputation is not everything.