My friend in college always named this as the most difficult book he’s ever read. Every time I think about reading it, I look at the synopsis and conclude that I don’t have the mental energy right now.

“I’m a teenage outcast, which is supposedly the demographic that most appreciates The Catcher in the Rye. I should read it.”

I hated it. I gained nothing. Hand me another Poppy Z. Brite novel.

A Little Life.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s very flawed. But it was a page-turner for reasons I can’t really nail down.