I just found out that there are people who ship the brother and sister in Flowers in the Attic... Yeah, that's enough Internet for today.

I'm about 100 pages into Flowers in the Attic and reading it feels like watching a brutal car crash. It's terrifying, but you can't tear yourself away from it because of morbid curiosity.

I'm reading We Used to Live Here by Marcus Kliewer and I didn't think I could be *this* terrified by a book. No jumpscares or gore either so far, just pure psychological dread.

There is nothing more frustrating and exciting than a book you're reading referencing another book you have not read. It's frustrating because I feel like I should have already read it and it's exciting because now I can read it and see how it relates to the book I was reading.

Is it just me or do other people also feel like they are the problem when they end up disliking a critically acclaimed book?

We should normalise mukbangers eating normal amounts of food instead of eating inhumane portions while spitting the food out between cuts. This reminds me of the vomit potions the aristocracy used in The Hunger Games.

The Wall by Marlen Haushofer would have greatly benefited from third-person narration. The narrator's philosophical thoughts and social criticisms are surface-level. It would have been better if the reader was left guessing and analysing the character's actions and situation.

What on earth did the Hungarian publishers do to this poor book? Why did they make it into one of those cartoonish romance novel covers? This book won Prix Médicis. I can't-

If I was only allowed to recommend one book to people for the rest of my life it would be I Who Have Never Known Men by Jacqueline Harpman.