Books I didn't finish

I usually make a point of finishing every book I start.  I can only think of a few exceptions.

Some thirty years ago I started reading the Gary Jennings historical novel Aztec, set in Mexico just before the Spanish conquest, with Montezuma as a bad guy.  It wasn't a bad book; on the contrary, it was pretty entertaining in a somewhat lurid way. (I remember one part where he was travelling in the northern deserts, through the land of the dog people, then the land of the wild dog people, then the land of the rabid wild dog people.) But around the midpoint I just felt sated.  Yet I did read about 600 pages of it.

When I was young I read several of L.M. Montgomery's books about Anne of Green Gables.  But I lost interest in Anne's House of Dreams. (Maybe it felt a bit too adult for me.) I should try it again sometime.

I have this book about recollections of Groucho Marx by his longtime girlfriend Charlotte Chandler, titled Hello, I Must Be Going.  I've tried to read it twice, but couldn't get into it.  Better to watch his movies.

I'm in several book clubs.  In one we did Reading Lolita in Tehran, but I only read a bit of it.  It was something of a girl's book. (I only got through half a dozen pages before deciding the same about Alice Walker's The Color Purple.) And I only read a few pages of Jonathan Livingston Seagull before throwing it across the room.