At the supposed height of my sophomore reading life, when my mind should be able to delve into the deep capacities of iconic literary works, I decide to read a book most fit for nine-year olds.
While my peers are battling with 1000 pagers, I decided to go for an easy stroll. Maybe I felt emotionally bogged down by testing. Maybe the promise of the year end lent itself to an easy read. Or maybe I just wanted to read this book.
Elementary school was terrifying because of the big kids. Big kids are scary. I mean, they’re the tall, frightening ones that party and do drugs, right? But y’know, they’re also supposed to be smart and know stuff, like how to add double-digit numbers and read chapter books.
Recently, I’ve decided to broaden my (extremely) limited horizons. Choosing to stray away from typical YA fiction, I picked up a book not having to do with dystopias, romance, and teenager-angst.
So, instead, the book turned out to be about a man who was:
1) a professional hockey goalie on the Hungarian team
2) a bank robber
3) a grave digger