For book club we read 50 Shades of Grey, by E. L. James. If you don’t know anything about it, allow me to allow Ellen DeGeneres (you know, the lady I wrote postcards to once a week in the hopes she’ll take pity and invite me on her show and help me get published?) … anywho, here’s Ellen reading from 50 Shades.
The book is bad. I don’t know how else to tell you that. I’m sure some people will like it, but even people who like it (on boards I looked at) seemed to know that it was still bad writing. If you’re into reading about kinky sex or controlling dudes, I recommend this book. Otherwise, suffice yourself with this series of quotes from the book.
My personal favorites are the ones where she talks to her subconscious, and also her “inner goddess.” Good GOD this book is bad.
50 Shades of Grey
His voice is warm and husky like dark melted chocolate fudge caramel … or something.
“Um.” I feel the color in my cheeks rising again. I must be the color of The Communist Manifesto. Stop talking. Stop talking. NOW.
Paul is cute in a wholesome all-American boy-next-door kind of way, but he’s no literary hero, not by any stretch of the imagination. Is Grey? my subconscious asks me, her eyebrow figuratively raised. I slap her down.
My subconscious is figuratively tutting and glaring at me over her half-moon specs.
Tonight’s the night! After all this time, am I ready for this? My inner goddess glares at me, tapping her small foot impatiently. She’s been ready for this for years, and she’s ready for anything with Christian Grey
He gives me a wicked grin, the effects of which travel all the way down there.
It’s a beautiful May morning, Seattle at my feet. Wow, what a view. Beside me, Christian is fast asleep. Wow, what a view.
My inner goddess sits in the lotus position looking serene except for the sly, self-congratulatory smile on her face.
[…] a very small part of me resents that he should find this a surprise. My inner goddess does, too. She makes a very vulgar and unattractive gesture at him with her fingers.
My inner goddess jumps up and down with cheerleading pom-poms shouting yes at me.
My subconscious runs, screaming, and hides behind the couch.
My subconscious peeks out from behind the couch, still registering shock on her harpy face.
I thought I was in charge? My inner goddess looks like someone snatched her ice cream.
My inner goddess pouts at me, failing miserably to hide her disappointment.
What’s impressive is that I have even more so-amazingly-bad-they’re-good quotes from this book. But that’s all I can muster for now, my inner goddess has a gun.