it doesn’t have to be your favorite book or anything. It can be any book that you find yourself thinking of with a sense of pride for having read it.
Personally, I am really proud of myself for not DNFing A Little Life and pushing forward. I read a very good chunk of that book with tears running down my face–mind you, I was reading it on my phone during lectures for the entirety of my first semester last year–and I was always on the verge of putting it down just because of the horrible content. Also, it was pretty long; too long, actually. So when I was done, I was simultaneously Heartbroken, broken (just like in general), and relieved. It was truly a feat.
An honorable mention is A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens, because I swear to God I did not understand a single thing about it even 10 chapters in. Charles Dickens is too much.
How can you love something if you don’t understand it? I genuinely don’t know how that is possible.
I thought the writing was beautiful, I got the main gist of the plot and I enjoyed that. The final page is one of my favorite pieces of writing ever. That being said, it’s a very dense book with a lot of allusions and a unique structure that makes fully understanding the book difficult. I understood the surface level well enough, and I loved the surface of the book.