I have an irritating trait that I am incapable of giving up on a book part-way through, and I struggle on to the bitter end, though invariably am equally disappointed with the second half as with the first, and with the end as with the beginning. So I end up wondering why I wasted part of my life on this rubbish.
But it didn't happen this time. I read the Book Thief and really didn't get on with it. It was a huge battle most of the way through forcing myself to read it all. But the last few chapters were beautiful and made the struggle all worthwhile. I wept buckets of course.