I read more than just The Hunger Games, people. Honest I do. Please don’t judge me. I’ve also read these worthwhile and erudite works:

Pigeon English: This was very good. About a young boy from Ghana who moves into a council flat in London with his family, leaving his father behind to finish some things up while the mother moves the children so they can have a better life, and then how he absorbs and reacts to and processes all the usual fun stuff and crap from living in such a place at such an age. I shan’t say more. If you pick up this book in a bookstore and you’re in North America, do not read the inside flap. I ordered it on the basis of a review in The London Times and didn’t read the blurb, which was written for Americans, until after I’d finished it. If I had read it before I probably wouldn’t have read it. It’s that bad. Publishers think Americans are that stupid.

The Sense of an Ending: This was so good, omg. He won the Booker Prize for this book, which was why I bought it (see, I’m on a kick of modern novels, and figured that him winning cuz he wrote a “readable” novel was good enough for me. “Award winning” but “readable” FTW.). It’s so, so, so good. The blurb on Amazon is good, I suppose, but I wouldn’t really pay too much attention to it.

The Imperfectionists: This was a tough read, actually. It isn’t exactly a happy book. But it’s really good about journalism and journalists and putting a paper out and the effects of the modern age on such a business and the history of and the sort of thing that kills it dead. But The Hunger Games it warn’t.