I've noticed over the last year or so that I have become less patient with books than I used to be. In the not too distant past, I would stick with a book to the very end, struggling through hundreds of pages, not wanting to give up on a tome that critics consider a "masterpiece." I would think I was just missing something and if I just kept dog-paddling, I'd eventually get it. I likened it to a marriage, that I had chosen to commit to this read and would stick it out no matter what. Somewhere along the line (in fact, it was last summer when I tried to read Barbara Taylor Bradford's The Triumph of Katie Byrne) I gave up on that. I give a novel 30-50 pages, and if I'm not hooked or at least still mildly curious by then, the tale goes in the box to be sold at a used bookstore. I've added a couple more "masterpieces of fiction" to that box in the last couple of months. I was feeling especially generous with The Crimson Petal and the White and gave it almost a 100 pages, but it still ended up in the For Sale box. I think I agree with Barbara Kingsolver when she says that she considers those first few pages as dating -- if at the end of 30 pages the book isn't talking "til death so us part," the relationship is over. Time is too precious and there are too many good books out there to waste sticking around with a sleeper.