Gave it 100 pages, then wound up giving up.

I'm not sure what it is about old fiction (this is from 1953) that turns me off so much. I have so many literary friends that read a mix of old and new, but when I'm forced to read anything before, say, 1980, I cannot stay focused. (There are a few exceptions; for example, I found Tale of Two Cities and Jane Eyre captivating.) To me, old books are like old computers, outdated and dull and earth-shatteringly slow. I want this year's model.

This is a bias that, I suppose, everyone who reads my reviews should know about -- but it'll rarely be relevant, because I pretty much only read books written in the past 30 years or so.