I am the kind of person that can happily never finish a book and not lose sleep over it. I am, as an article in The Atlantic suggests, a Half-Reader.
But I am also a slow reader. For example, when I borrowed Fool on the Hill (by Matt Ruff) from a friend back in high school, it took me over a year and a half to finish it. Eventually she got so impatient with me that I felt bad being under such pressure, since I just wanted to saviour the story, to drag it out for as long as I could. But I also very much wanted to finish it nonetheless. It was a complex story, a whimsical story, a great story. Something I’ve not been able to find since.
Then there a books I really never finish, mostly because I get bored with them half way through. There are only a handful of novels that were so bad that I wanted to throw the books against a wall or in a corner. Literally.