I tried. I really did. And I failed. 
 I loved the premise of this book. And when my friend lent it to me, my mother had just finished reading Flaubert's most famous novel, Madame Bovary, and she told me that the prose was by far the most sublime she'd ever read. And I usually enjoy classics a lot, so who could blame me for starting this one straight away? 
 I guess I just didn't connect with the author, or didn't understand his true purpose, because when, at the end of the book, I read this passage: 
 And then they each proceeded to summarise their lives. 
 They had both failed in their objects--the one who dreamed only of love, and the other of power. 
 What was the reason of this? 
 I momentarily forgot that the book belonged to a friend of mine and threw it at the wall. Literally. 
 Of course, there is a rational explanation to my violent act. 
 I had just spent nineteen days reading a book about a man whose only purposes in life were to a) seduce an honest, married woman and make her his mistress (something he'll never accomplish); b) have some good old sex with a goose nice, young, dumb woman (whom he'll get pregnant); and c) get a very rich and lonely widow to marry him (he'll cancel the wedding at the last minute). 
 He was the most obnoxious, malleable, idle, dumb character I'd ever found in classics. And, most irritating of all, he was so inactive that in his shoes, a fossilized seashell would have been able to take more decisions. 
 But, you see, I'm just being silly. Because before I started reading the actual novel, I read a very interesting introduction called "The Book About Nothing". 
 The title says it all. And I'm just dumb for having thought that something could actually happen (except for the historical background, which, I must say, was quite interesting and described in an original manner). 
 If I have to be honest, I didn't hate this book. I liked it, kind of. I admired the prose, and I found some notable passages I had to read two or three times to grasp their intricate meaning and unorthodox beauty, and I regretted not being able to speak French, because I think that in its original language, Sentimental Education is indeed quite something. 
 What I couldn't, and didn't want to, like, or even accept, was Frederic himself, the (unfortunately) main character of the novel. As I've already pointed out, he was everything a protagonist shouldn't be, and even more than that, I couldn't bring myself to feel sad for him, to pity him, to sympathize with him, or to even care about him and his useless life and the fact that he's depressed because - poor thing - he has to work for an entire effing day in his whole life. 
 I could go on and on about this book, but I guess what I really mean to say is that, even though I can see the author's genius and understand why so many people loved this book, I didn't enjoy it nearly as much as I thought I would. 
 And, if you ever decide to read it, make sure have a wall close at hand.