A
Sundance by Teresa Wilson
Kerry:
I really don't know why this book is so popular. I mean, I suppose it is going to appeal to young girls who want danger and romance, but I found this book really tedious. For a start, the characters were really unconvincing. The author went out of her way to add lots of details about the characters, but I found these details really pointless. I thought that some of the facts she presented about the main characters would become significant in some way later in the novel, but they didn't. They were just worthless bits of information. I also was disappointed that, although this book is meant to be about kids at high school, the writer seems to have no recollection at all about what it's like to be 17. The main character thought and acted like a 32-year old. It just wasn't believable. I'm not saying Teresa Wilson is a bad writer. She can obviously string words together and come up with a story that is appealing to a large number of people, but she lacks anything original. There is no flair. It just uses the same sort of language as you can see in many other mediocre novels.
B
Wild Ways by Margery Emerson
Liz:
I have to say that I won't forget this book for a long time. I was hooked from the very first chapter.
The devastating story affected me so much that I don't know if I'll ever feel the same again. I was close to tears on several occasions. I've got images in my brain now that I don't think will ever leave me. It's incredibly well-researched and, although it is fiction, is based on shocking real-life events. I learned an awful lot about things that went on that I never knew before. Margaret Emerson has a brilliant way with words and I really felt real empathy towards the characters, although I was sometimes irritated by the choices they made. However, the parallel story, the part that is set in the present, is not quite so good. I found myself just flicking through that part so that I could get back to 1940s Paris.
C
Orchid by Henry Rathbone
Imogen:
This is a delightful novel full of wonderful imagery, it paints a remarkable picture of life in a distant time and a far-away place. If you're looking to learn about Eastern culture in great detail, then this is probably not the book for you, as the writer skims over most of the more complicated aspects of the country's etiquette. The historical aspects are also not covered in much depth. However, I wonder whether this was the writer's intention. By doing this, he symbolises the superficiality of the girl's life. She, like the book, is beautiful and eager to please, but remains too distant from us, the readers, to teach us much. Although I loved the book and read it in one sitting, the ending was a bit of a disappointment. A story which involves so much turmoil, in a place where the future is uncertain, should not have a happy-ever-after fairy-tale ending.
D
High Hills by Mary Holland
Hannah:
I read this book for a literature class. I know it's a classic, and I did try to like it, but I just didn't get into it. I kept persevering, hoping that I'd start to enjoy it, but no such luck. The famous scene out on the moors was definitely the best bit of the book, but even that I found ridiculous when it is clearly supposed to be passionate. As I approached the end of the book, I figured there must be some kind of moral to the story, something that I would learn from the experience of trudging through seven hundred long pages, but there was nothing worthwhile. I don't know why the literary world sees this book as such a masterpiece. The characters are portrayed as being intelligent, but they do such stupid things! And as for it being a love story - marrying someone you don't love and then being abused by them - that doesn't spell love to me.

She knew the street backwards, of course. How many times had she been dragged up it as a child by the wrist, whining and snivelling, always wishing she were somewhere else? Now she had no desire to be anywhere but here. This bustling traffic, these fuming buses, these chipped paving stones and boarded-up shop fronts, they were hers. Here, she would grow from defiant teenager to independent woman. When she was an old woman, she would gaze out over the lawns and say “Ah, Knox Road, that’s where I really came into my own”.
Number 126 was only a short walk from the bus stop, and she heaved her multiple bags onto her shoulders and trudged off, trying to maintain the elation as the straps dug into the flesh of her neck and fingers. Number 126 was set back slightly from the main road, with a concrete path and weed-patch at the front. The window frames were rotten and the paint chipped. Holly tried not to mind. It was what was inside that counted, after all. The coming-together of six individuals from diverse backgrounds. discussing politics, culture and art late into the night, sharing ideas, recipes, milk, shower gel and lovers – that would be what she’d look back on of course, not the paintwork. In the absence of either a bell or knocker, she rapped firmly on the door.
There was no reply. Holly peered through gap in curtains in the downstairs window, but there was nothing but gloom within. She could hear a faint thudding of a bass beat, but was not sure which house it belonged to. She rapped more firmly, and was searching for a pebble to throw to the upstairs window when the door opened. A shirtless, overweight twenty-something, with bleary eyes and greasy hair stood in the doorway wearing boxer shorts and mismatched socks.
“I’ve come for the upstairs room, I’m the new tenant,” said Holly brightly.
The man grunted slightly and moved aside. He gestured up the dim, uncarpeted stairway and began to shuffle along the dark hallway to the rear of the house. “Top floor, is that right? I guess I just follow my nose!” Holly gave a high laugh, and received another grunt in reply. Then the man was gone. Not to worry, he must be the quiet moody type, thought Holly, too caught up in his own profound thoughts for inane chit-chat. One day she would penetrate his hard outer shell and release the free spirit inside. Anyway, now for the stairs.
The four flights of stairs would be worth it, she’d decided when she picked out the flat, even if it did mean her going downstairs to get to the bathroom, because the room faced the front, and she could watch the world scurry by as she sipped her morning coffee. Kicking one bag in front and dragging the others behind, she finally made it up the four flights and flung open the door to her new room, her new haven, her new adult life.
Peeling beige wallpaper, a lumpy mattress on a chipboard bedframe, a bare light bulb, a flat-pack wardrobe inexpertly put together. All this, Holly could just about put up with, but when she saw the view from her window – a dull patch of grey sky, invariable whatever the angle, she finally had to admit to herself that her adult life was not getting off to a great start.