Sometimes you read a book and love each page. Others you just slog through. I just finished "One hundred years of Solitude", which is supposedly one of the great novels of the last century. It is not. No Sir.
It has one passage near the end that makes all the drudgery preceding it worthwhile. It describes a trait of a good marriage. "... they enjoyed the miracle of loving each other as much at the table as in bed, and they grew to be so happy that even when they were two worn-out old people they kept on blooming like little children and playing together like dogs. "
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