"Hate" is probably a bit strong for describing my feelings on some of these. "Apathetic" or "ambivalent" might be closer.
Heinlein novels. I enjoy his short stories still, but SF fans and quite a few critics love at least a portion of Heinlein's novels and the three I've read didn't work for me. Podkayne of Mars was fun but not great, Starship Troopers has a debatable premise, and Friday, which was supposed to be a return to form, I found very nearly reprehensible for its shallow portrayal of a competent woman.
Cold Mountain by Charles Frasier. I stopped 50 pages into it and have not gone back. I rarely, rarely do this. I read Faulkner, I admire Eudora Welty, I respect if not exactly like Flannery O'Connor, and William Gay was a major find for me about 8-9 years ago, so it's not like I don't enjoy Southern story-telling. But Frazier's writing struck me as willfully dense and turgid rather than necessarily so, straining to provide that feeling of epic that Faulkner achieved with apparent effortlessness. (Well, effortlessness on Faulkner's part though maybe not always on the reader's part.)
The Natural by Saul Bellow. Not bad, but not as powerful as I'd have guessed from what I've read about it. Can't say that I've enjoyed what little I've read by Bellow, the other thing being the short novel Seize the Day which was a very long short novel. (See also, William Styron's The Long March, which seemed like a long, long, long slog.)
The Heart of the Affair by Graham Greene. I kept wanting to yell at the main male character, "Get over yourself!!!!" He was depressive with a martyr complex.
Randy M.