Most Difficult Novels To Read Novels & Stories

“Favorite novelist?” “Jane Austen. Pride and Prejudice, before you ask.” “By God, boy!” he exclaimed in glee and clapped his hands. “We have a keeper with this one!” He turned to me again. “Second favorite?” I chewed my lip for a second. “Dickens or Louisa May Alcott. It’s tough, but Alcott might just win out. Her ability to create a whole cast of compelling, lovable characters – not just one or two – is something I’ve yet to find in another writer.”

I struggled to choose what book to read to him, since it occurred to me, belatedly, that I have no idea what my Master reads for pleasure. I try to choose something classic instead, something appropriate; but ´Wuthering Heights´, with Cathy, Heathcliff and Edgar, and their doomed love triangle, isn´t right. Neither is ´Gone with the Wind´, with Scarlett, Rhett and Ashley. ´Pride and Prejudice´, ´Jane Eyre´, ´Anna Karenina´, all dwell on the failure of three lovers to make their situation work. In the end, I choose something very different, ´Time Enough for Love´, an old 1970´s Sci-fi novel, in which the characters make their polyamorous family work.

I say with a smile. “Knut started, but…it’s difficult.” “It took me many years,” I say as I study the spines of the books. “It’s not the easiest language to learn, but you will…if there’s one thing vampires have it’s time.” I frown at a thick, black book without a title on the spine. It looks out of place among the Navjahi books surrounding it. The book is twice the length of the ones on either side of it, and four times thicker. I pull the heavy, dusty tome from the shelf and stare at the cover.

"Well, sometimes I watch T.V. I like, well, love to read. So I do that a lot when I'm alone." "Like what? Romance, crime thrillers?" I shrugged. "Sometimes. I really like the classics. Jane Austen, the Bronte sisters, George Elliot (who was a woman, by the way). I also like the Russians, like Tolstoy and Dostoevsky. 'War and Peace' is amazing." "You've read 'War and Peace'?" "Yeah, twice. It's excellent." I cocked my head. "How about you, what do you like to read?"

That much was obvious. ‘A Hundred Years of Solitude.’ She was only halfway through the book. It was a heavy one, and she couldn’t understand why she read it before she came back. Night time was perfect for a reading session, so she was reading seriously. Heather was the most attractive when she was quiet, and she drifted to sleep with a book in her hands that night. If there was one downside about night reading, that would be the fact that the reader would fall asleep easily.

How am I going to get home? “Fat bitch, do you not hear me talking to you.” I don’t respond as I wonder how the hell I’m going to get out of this book. I’ve read several novels like this, but the main character almost always dies in their world. Dread fills me; did I die in my sleep? I didn’t even get to read the last Game of Thrones novel; how could I have died? I’m young and healthy, yeah I’m relatively thick, but a little fat never hurt anyone.

Some of them read multiple times judging by the cracking of the binding. History. Military strategy. Economics. Law. Psychology. Philosophy. One entire shelf of biographies of powerful men across different centuries and continents. And then something that surprised me. Fiction. A whole section of it tucked into the far corner like something private. Novels. Some of them old enough that the titles had faded. I pulled one out carefully. A Russian novel. Thick. Dense. The kind of book that required patience and silence and the willingness to sit inside discomfort for extended periods.

I said. "Well then," he said. "Please enlighten me: what is your favorite film and book?" "Favorite film is Gone with The Wind, favorite book is Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy." He grimaced. "I half-expected the gushy romance part, but not the lack of happy endings," Adam said. ''Lack of happy endings?!'' I asked. "Says the man whose favorite book is The Art of War..." "I see your point." I leaned forward and pulled out the bag of breakfast that Mrs. Chandler had sent us.

he watches my arms tremble with anger. I glare at him. "Stop being so damn bipolar. Pick up your fucking mess. I'm going back upstairs and I'll read a book or something." I grumble, turning on my heels and going back from where I had come from. ***** After an hour of reading an interesting novel, I shut the book and skim my fingers over the cover. Classic books and poems have always been my thing, but some of them are extremely hard to read. Shakespeare is my all time favorite author. Although he writes tragedies, and darkness, I absolutely adore the way he tells a tale. Each and every word of his wraps around your heart and tugs on a string. He brings so much emotion into what he writes.

It was only my imagination, they were all against me. I don't know about you, but I love reading Chinese novels as well as mangas. They transport me to a world were people reincarnate, where a second chance can be obtained, you can correct you mistake in your second life, you can even prevent injustice to happen since you have super powers or cheat like a magical ornament. There you're efforts are compensated. It's so idealistic, that is why I also read novels, be it historical, romantic or fantasy, they're my heaven. I escaped to this imaginaries world's, when I can't take it anymore. My best novels are " any duchess will do", throne of Glass" and "Jane Eyre", they're more realistic. But I