Marcel Proust, Remembrance of Things Past. Only got through 1,000 pages. All that happened was he liked this girl Gilberte, and her mom Mme Swann. They had tea together. Then he went to a beach. That's it. Really. I had to stop reading it. Awful. AWFUL
ONLY? I think making it that far puts you easily in the 90th percentile.
Time the reading of this description of the motion of a second hand on a typical wall clock:
It was a clock. The kind of clock that hangs on every schoolroom wall; the nemesis of both student and teacher alike and it was imposing and large.
The second hand was master of all; its ponderous pause between each precious, passing moment lasting longer and longer each minute as it pushed the stubborn minute hand forward but one degree on that huge wheel that ground so slowly toward freedom.
God, how I hated that clock...