Blindness is the book that left me with a permanent mistrust of award-winning literature, because while some of it is legitimately good, too often award-winning is code for “page after page of navel-gazing angst that doesn’t go anywhere.” If a book wins a Pulitzer, a Nobel, or a Booker, watch out!

I didn’t make it through the book, so I eventually looked up the ending, and the instant I found out about it, I’m like, “How is this not considered the biggest copout ever?!” Basically the ending is that the outbreak just goes away as quickly as it came with no explanation whatsoever. I blame it on the navel-gazing nature of literary fiction. If Blindness had been genre fiction, everyone and their grandma would have been calling out this book, but because it’s literary, everyone assumes it’s deep.

I probably would have become a nun and dedicated my life to God. As such, I would be able to get a more extensive education than most women of the time and the routine of religious life would probably suit my Autism just fine.