One day in elementary school, after the last bell of the day had rung and I was walking toward the bike rack, a boy whom I did not know (though I had seen him around) ran up to me from behind, sucker punched me in the face and ran away. To this day I do not know why he punched me. I cried as I walked my bike home.
That's what I look for in a book. Books like this are becoming fewer and farther between for me. The classics haven't been holding my attention lately, so I've been scouring the more obscure corners of the literary world, where the books are not weighed down by mountains of secondary literature.
I'm an asshole.