Following a new personal rule that only books over 700 pages are worthwhile,

I am now reading the mind-numbingly atomistic, scrupulously psycho-meticulous novel
Porius by J.C. Powys, where every little twitch, every breath of wind, every peep of a bird is hyper-scrutinized through the most nanoistic procedures of literary psychoanalysis imaginable, and even the dung from cows is symbologized, if not quite mythologized.
I have read over 125 pages, and so far the hero in two or three hours has had short, gnomic conversations with his cousin about Mithraism and Pelagianism, and visited a cave and a tent, where not much has happened except for that cow dung thing.
The book is marvelously intriguing!