Yawn

I started reading Summer by J.M. Coetzee, which came recommended.  But then I do what I always do, with my microscopic attention span:  I read a few pages and thought, hmm, I'm not too excited about this book, let's turn to the internet, shall we?  I know.  My co-workers used to play a game that involved seeing how long they could talk to me without me needing to look something up on the internet, but it got too easy; as far as I know, it's not still a sport.

But I looked up Coetzee, and Wikipedia says this:
"Coetzee is a man of almost monkish self-discipline and dedication. He does not drink, smoke or eat meat. He cycles vast distances to keep fit and spends at least an hour at his writing-desk each morning, seven days a week. A colleague who has worked with him for more than a decade claims to have seen him laugh just once. An acquaintance has attended several dinner parties where Coetzee has uttered not a single word." - Jason Crowley
He doesn't really sound like someone I want to spend a bunch of time with, like 224 pages.  Am I being too hard on him?  I don't want to miss out on a good read, but seriously, one laugh in 10 years?  That seems like a misspent decade, if you ask me.  I may press on a bit, but I think I'll probably skip ahead to the next book in my pile, The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie, by Alan Bradley.  Let me know if I'm making a serious mistake.

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