I once had a relationship with William H. Gass’s The Tunnel. It was a difficult couple of months. We didn’t get along—even though on the surface it seemed we would be a perfect couple. It was certainly no Ulysses. But I stuck with it to the very end, searching for any glimmer of connection or love, so sure was I that there must be one. At the very last, however, we parted quietly, with little fanfare, a bit embarrassed at our failure to make it work.

Do I wish that book were easier to read?

No. I admire its depths, even though I was not the one meant to plumb them.

Do I wish that book were shorter?

No. I respect a book that respects itself—a book that is not ashamed of declaring itself in bold and profuse terms.

Do I regret having spent time reading it?

Not at all. What I wanted was not entertainment but an experience—and I got that experience, and it has stayed with me. I feel that The Tunnel and I accomplished something, and I am reminded of that accomplishment whenever I see the book resting, still admired and enduring, on my bookshelf.