Effrontery

It isn't very often that I despise a book. Accusations of e~l~i~t~i~s~m rising out of my instinctual dislike of bestsellers, and harbouring a profound distrust of anything that has been inscribed upon by the Women's Era-type book clubs I have tried to quel. Exculpating onself is so hard these days, especially when one happens to be a scholar of Literature. But before I start writing about the perils of being a littérateur (I promise a post about the perils after my duel with the exams) I shall make known my views of a certain Danielewski's "House of Leaves."
I dislike the book.*
Nothing about or in the book has any redeeming qualities.
I feel I have been basking in the warm ambivalence that my present phase has been emanating for far too long. Therefore, no wishy-washy 10-page paper about latent/hidden from the untrained eyes of sophomores/possible greatness of a text this.
*This...a one sentence bilious verdict.