I lay down on the bed and opened the book halfway. It felt rough and stale, but the smell was warm and familiar. I stretched my legs out and read the inscription, To my family. "These are the real heroes," I thought as I skimmed the prologue. Prologues are all the same and do nothing but raise your expectations —such showers of flattery could only be surpassed by their grandmothers.
The first chapter didn't have a title. It said Chapter One in bold, followed by three paragraphs printed in tiny Times New Roman. The first paragraph was far from engaging. Actually, it was quite melodramatic. I read it twice to see if the problem was the heat melting my neurons or if the book was written by someone who had just escaped from a cage of monkeys.
Then I moved on to the second paragraph. It began with transcendental questions about the meaning of life and deep emotions that I couldn't be less interested in.
With the third paragraph came rhetorical questions no less transcendental. The book turned out to be such a bore that I was determined to read it out of sheer masochism, I guess, since I can't think of any other reason.
Is this just complete fiction or is there a real book behind the story? Personally, I have no problem with the "transcendental questions" you mention. In fact, I just finished reading a philosophical novel. That said, I imagine your story is mostly playing with language, as usual, am I right?
Hi, Eduard. This is part of a half-real, half-made-up story. A friend of mine recommended a well-known book that I ended up hating. She was so insistent that I kept reading, expecting to finally reach the “wonderful parts” she’d been raving about. But the truth is, I couldn’t finish the book. So I turned the experience into a six-page story with a true ending that’s surprisingly shocking. But yes, I'm always playing with the language (whatever the result may be) :D. Thanks so much for stopping by!