Of Books and Pimples

I was browsing at Borders last week with a 30% voucher in hand when I chanced upon an entire shelf of recommended literary classics/favourites. A quick scan of the displayed titles confirmed my long-held suspicions.
I am the least literary person alive. I'm so NOT literary that any book with an open ending drives me nuts. Movies that encourage the audience to form their own conclusions disturb me to no end because i cant walk away from the cinema hall with a clear set of resolutions about the plot and its characters. Which is why when i read my first Murakami novel i was initially repelled from reading more of his works because i felt that he wasnt making any point in his stories. (it took me a very long time to realise that maybe the lack of a point WAS the point.) for the same reason i cant enjoy french arthouse films either.

i'm ashamed to say that i have never read some of the most celebrated books ever written. i used to read voraciously, but even then my diet consisted of the literary equivalent of comfort food (read: chick lit). while i've since eschewed girly novels, there's still quite some way to go.

some books that i've singled out as must-reads:

1. To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee

2. Breakfast at Tiffany's - Truman Capote

3. On the Road - Jack Kerouac

4. One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest - Ken Kesey

5. Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoevsky

6. Lord of the Flies - William Golding

in the meantime, i am nursing a pimple on my chin that's just about the size of my head. so now it actually looks as if i have a Mini Me growing from my face. bummer.