Day 2: Your 5 least favorite books of all time.
1. Veronika Decides to Die- Paulo Coelho
I really hate when the author addresses the reader. Coelho does this a lot in this novel, and like, right in the middle of the story. So annoying.
2. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn- Mark Twain
DISCLAIMER: This is by no means a bad book. This is a great book. I’ve read it about… 6 times in the past two years? It keeps getting assigned in my classes, and I think if I have to read it again I will actually blow my brains out.
3. The Catcher in the Rye- J.D. Salinger
This books is horrible. White kid whining blah blah blah who cares.
4. Anything by Stephanie Meyer.
5. Jazz- Toni Morrison
I love Toni Morrison and all of her books but I could not get into this one at all.
“But I was in bad condition - drunk, and having missed a night’s sleep. As soon as the stuff entered my system, I passed out. Two hours went by without my noticing.
I felt like I’d only blinked my eyes, but when I opened them, my girlfriend and a Mexican neighbor were working on me, doing everything they could to bring me back. The Mexican was saying, “There, he’s coming around now.”
We lived in a tiny, dirty apartment. When I realized how long I’d been out and how close I’d come to leaving it forever, our little home seemed to sparkle like cheap jewelry. I was overjoyed not to be dead. Generally the closest I ever came to wondering about the meaning of it all was to consider that I must be the victim of a joke. There was no touching the hem of mystery, no little occasion when any of us thought - well, speaking for myself only, I suppose - that our lungs were filled with light, or anything like that. I had a moment’s glory that night, though. I was certain I was here in this world because I couldn’t tolerate any other place.
As for Hotel, who was in exactly the same shape I was and carrying just as much heroine, but who didn’t have to share it with his girlfriend, because he couldn’t find her that day: he took himself to a rooming house down at the end of Iowa Avenue, and he overdosed, too. He went into a deep sleep, and to the others there he looked quite dead.
The people with him, all friends of ours, monitored his breathing by holding a pocket mirror under his nostrils from time to time, making sure that the points of mist appeared on the glass. But after a while they forgot about him, and his breath faded without anybody’s noticing. He simply went under. He died.
I am still alive.”