Some books read like chewing chalk, such as The Silver Sun (1977) by Nancy Springer. Try as I might, I could not choke this thing down, even by skimming, giving up halfway through.
I remember seeing this book on the shelf when I was a kid, so I thought that I had missed some treasure of a tale, but I was wrong. I'd actually been a savvy kid by passing this book up because it wasn't for me in any way, shape, or form.
If the book had been shorter, I may have waded through, but was it was, getting halfway through this thing felt like self abuse. Like eating chalk, I got to the point where I couldn't inflict this upon myself anymore. I tried finding interesting things to tide my attention over, some clever bit of world building, or something admirable, but no, there wasn't anything there to find.
In my opinion, the characters were thin, flat, and uninteresting. The story flowed too slow, too stuffed, and what there was wasn't interesting. The magic and the world weren't interesting. The religion and gods weren't interesting. The history wasn't interesting (but fantasy history is almost never interesting, so that's par).
Most of the time, I had no real clue why anyone was doing anything, other than that's what the outline said that they were supposed to do. I found nothing pushing me along the tale, nor anything pulling. My wife would call this a "he goes here and does this, and then goes there and does that" sort of story, a series of actions with no real thrust or core.
I'm glad that fantasy progressed beyond this.