My Book Recommendation

Hey everyone!
I'm going to recommend a book by one of my favourite authors, Bret Easton Ellis. I'm currently reading his second novel, Rules of Attraction. Published in 1987.

It was made into a film in 2002.

The blurb is as follows:

Incisive, controversial and startlingly funny, The Rules of Attraction examines a group of affluent students at a small, self-consciously bohemian, liberal-arts college on America’s East Coast.

Lauren, who changes the man in her bed even more often than she changes course, is dating Victor but sleeping with Sean. Sean – cool, ambivalent and deeply cynical – might be in love with Lauren, but he’s not going to let that stop him from bedding Paul. Paul, as shrewd as he is passionate, is Lauren’s ex-lover and the final point in this curious triangle. This is a breathtaking tale of sex, expectation, desire and frustration.

‘A tour of the heart of darkness, a moral armageddon’ The Times

‘Compelling . . . sympathetic to his “lost generation” the way only Fitzgerald was about his’Vanity Fair

‘One of the primary inside sources in upper-middle-class America’s continuing investigation of what has happened to its children’ New York Times

‘Inspired. A wonderfully comic novel’ Gore Vidal

Place prose- Asylum

Tick tock. Tick tock.... it was all I could hear from my cot, solitary confinement makes me very lonely. I was put in here because the Lord told me that Sister Agatha was the Devil incarnate and not to take the pills she gives me. I always obey the Lord.

Sometimes I am bad, that's when they start to take my things away, it was my blanket first, then my pillow and tonight they went for the mattress. I didn't care. The Lord would save me. When I pray I like to huddle in the corner and rock back and forth, mostly because I am scared the Sisters will see me. The Sisters are bad people.

The first week I was here they took away my hairbrush, I don't know why, all I did was hit someone with it. My hair is now in matted clumps, Sister Mabel told me not even getting in the bath will fix it. My arms are covered in red marks and silvery scars, I don't know why. It must be the Devil.

The Sisters have exorcised me twice, the Priest was a nice man, but I tried to tell them that I had no demon, it was the Sisters who did. That's what got me put in here.

My feet are cold; I'm not allowed shoes or socks. My arms are cold; my sleeves are too short and my blanket is gone. Sometimes I am sad; the other people here are scary and like to shout things at me. I begged for my things back, but Sister Mary said that the Lord told her not to give them to me, she's a liar. She's just angry because I found the lipstick she wasn't supposed to have and used it to write on the wall. I didn't write anything that wasn't true, so I don't know why she's upset. It was a very nice red colour and my wall looks a lot better now. I wish I had a window, but the Sisters won't let me out of my cell. I hate it here. I hate them. The Lord will save me.

Place prose

A chill spread through me, I felt like I had interrupted something. The tree seemed to pause in mid-step over the old house. Roots, perched like tentacles, spilled down onto the ground, pooling at my feet.

The whole place smelled of rot, damp and moss, as if touching anything would cause it to decompose and be lost forever. Everything within the house had long since rotted away, including, I would guess, its past inhabitants. Woodland creatures took refuge between its walls, like something out of a fairy tale. I wanted to stay, but it wasn't safe, and I'd read enough fairy tales to know that the giant would probably be on its way soon.

The wind whistled, something was on its way here, I ran to the house and jumped in through one of the windows with no glass, spooking rats, squirrels and bats to name but a few. Empty bed frames and an old oak table were all that remained of the past owners, apart from an old net curtain, which lay torn and half rotten on the floor, its former glorious white colour had gone to the dirty grey of dust. Once I decided it was safe I was gone, never looking back at the tentacled tree, which had probably moved on its way to wherever it had been going before. I wiped it from my mind like a dead bug on a car windscreen, pulling up my hood and running along to grandma's house.

Place piece (draft)- The Library

The computing section. Silence. Volumes untouched by student hands, pages without a crease. Game Coding gathers dust, last taken out in January 2010 by a boy who just wanted to see the pictures. Under every librarian's "shush" one can hear the desperate cries of books unread, having never been enjoyed or appreciated by the eyes of a reader, screams muffled by dust, no one hears them. How To Program Java flies from its shelf, as if setting itself up to trap a reader between its 1580 pages, only for it to be roughly shoved back in the right place.

Other volumes lay beneath shelves, left by students intending to return for them. They stay silent, waiting for their rescue, but they'll be waiting for a long time, those students to longer go here.

Place piece- To all the Unfortunates in G Block

It had gotten warmer since the beginning, heat created from the friction of pens to notebooks as ideas flowed from the mind to the wrist. Chairs pulled wonky and tables pulled in close, as if the creativity will rub off on one another. Fingers pull thick hair aside, clearing the way for eyes to read back over paragraphs and pages. The clock, displaying the total wrong time, daren't tick for fear of breaking the flow. Ideas run out, dripping like a leaky tap before returning to the previous stream. So much goes on yet nothing happens. It's silent. The world outside goes on, unable to see the ideas fly like sparks around the room. The air is thick, trembling with energy. The abandoned technology is all exiled into one corner, where it may distract no one. 'Twas just a room in a creaky old shack, an annexe with a name as welcoming as the place was pleasant 'G Block'. Only the Unfortunates are left here, with its creaky door and corridor with no lights and a phone with no dial tone, to give the illusion that one could call for help. G2, fallen posters on the ground and a door linking each room to the next, urging Unfortunates to watch one another. It wasn't all bad, the radiatorworked at least, caged to prevent theft, and the adjustment of the settings. Parabulas stain the board, from the Unfortunates who were here before, no one bothered wondering what had happened to them, after all, they were already gone.

Book Recommendation

Hey there
So out of the thousands of books we've read between us we have to recommend something, I'm going to choose  The Silence Of The Lambs series, it's a crime/thriller that's been made into a huge movie franchise.

Serial Killer+ Awesome Detective guy= Epic tale

There's a reason it's so famous, just saying :P

Place- Drill

Left, right, left right left. Left, right, left right left....
The unity of our boots hitting the floor in perfect time seemed to spur on Serge, who was dripping from the heavy rain which pounded down on us all.

"Harry, arms up higher!" He called, marching us through mud and other substances I'm glad I couldn't identify. Our shirts stuck to us, epaulettes swollen like sponges and the boys hats soaked through. The only advantage to the ugly female bowler hat was it didn't have a soft top, and so didn't drink up every drop of rain like a thirsty camel.

Serge and Staff Tweed surveyed us, noting every millisecond someone was out of time, until every step was executed with military precision. Everyone longed for their jumpers and coats, both of which were standard issue but still not to be worn during drill. The calling of warmth and dryness seemed to be the biggest incentive to us, and we'd have followed it like the Bisto kids if we could.

"Halt!" Serge shouted, forcing us all to stop on the next clunk of heavy boots. "Atten-tion!" thumbs hit the seam of trousers and backs were straight as nails on exactly his command, hopefully we were good enough this time.

After four and a half hours in vile rain and thick mud, Serge finally let us stop to eat and get dry, only to continue at dawn. We daren't groan, we had to do an extra half hour last time we did. We had to take what we were told without complaint (or any reaction at all if we're at attention) and treat everything with the most serious manner. This was the big boy league.