It makes my head hurt just a little, in a good way, like working toward muscle failure in an effort to make that muscle stronger.
I just read a newish Stephen King book of short stories, like the Different Seasons format, 370+ pages in about 3 1/2 hours. However, I read fiction differently than something like the other book I mentioned; I treat that as a text and reread, highlight and annotate accordingly.
Despite the beautiful Joyce prose, Dubliners depressed the shit out of me. Moving on to reread The Tempest, because my dad was the best damn Caliban Keel ever saw.
Sig Credit to Toxic