Reading Jazz brought me back to high school. That feeling of reading a great book and struggling through every page. The greatness of the book increases the shame of never achieving momentum, turning a page every few minutes and never quite being on top of the plot.
I feel bad about it, but I couldn't get the whole way through this book. I was reading it for book club, and it was the polar opposite of the last book club book, Sea of Tranquility, which was easy to blast through in a few days.
Jazz is filled with beautiful details: virtually every sentence could be plucked out and quoted on its own. There are lots of really nice cultural observations that showcase how Morrison fully immersed herself in the world of this book.
But as pleasure reading? It's too much for me: too much beauty, not enough stringing it together. No sections where you can come up for air with some simple language, no dialogue that helps you get your footing.