"Books are the plane, and the train, and the road. They are the destination, and the journey. They are home."
- Anna Quindlen
Good grief, I already hate the narrative voice. Pretentious, stilted, and nauseatingly purple. Here she is describing the red paint that angry neighbors had splashed on her front door:
Our house had not been spurted with the Day-Glo spray of spontaneous orange but slathered with a hatred that had reduced until it was thick and savorous, like a fine French sauce.
Oh, get over yourself. No wonder your kid's a psychopath.