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This week’s musing asks:

What is the longest book you have ever read? How long did it take you to read it?

It’s funny that my mind immediately jumped to Bleak House, by Charles Dickens. It’s not the longest book I’ve read, but at the time I read it, that novel felt like it was two thousand pages long. It was a huge project for my British lit class my last year of high school, one of those in depth semester long mothers where we had to know all eighty some characters inside and out, complete with weekly quizzes to ensure we were, in fact, reading that sucker instead of using Sparknotes. My friend paid respects to the project by christening her dissected cat from our Anatomy and Physiology class Hortense.

The longest book I’ve actually read was The Stand, by Stephen King. It took me a little over a month, if I recall. My entire sophomore year, I was on a huge Stephen King kick, and that was the grand finale in the late spring. I think I’m due for a reread on that monster, since I know I’ll get more out of it now then I did when I was 15. I remember being absolutely grossed out by the superflu virus’ ravages on the world. Randall Flagg disturbed me on so many levels. I adored Nick, and I was devastated at what happened to him.

Nowadays, I haven’t found very many thousand plus page novels I’m willing to invest that kind of energy in. I have Under the Dome, by Stephen King, and I’ll eventually read that one – it’ll be the first novel of that length I’ve read in over ten years. Goodness.

Happy reading, everyone!

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