There are so many books that are well written, considered masterpieces, but are not *good* books—most of the pre 1900s "classics" fall into that category for me.

Though, I do find it interesting when it was the author& #39;s intent to make us dislike the main character/theme.

Take Salinger& #39;s Hapworth 16, 1924: Seymour is so unlikeable (surely it& #39;s intentional?!), that it& #39;s practically impossible to enjoy the story. If I met Seymour irl, I& #39;d avoid him like the plague, and that& #39;s how I felt reading it. Every second in his company was/is hell.

Roth& #39;s Portnoy& #39;s Complaint is another—a monologue between client & therapist. It was tedious & often dense. I had little sympathy &, at times, just wanted him to shut up. Roth drew me in so far that I felt a part of the story (like the therapist) but didn& #39;t enjoy the experience.

Kerouac& #39;s On The Road: a stream of conciousness tale that& #39;s erratic and dense. Just like a real stream of consciousness would be, & he captures it perfectly. But who wants to listen to someone ramble & unload for hours without taking a breath, especially when they& #39;re a prick?

I guess it& #39;s a case of separating the writing as a craft, from the story itself, but purposefully fostering dislike is an interesting approach.

And seeing as this thread lacks both style and substance, I& #39;m not too worried about the reader& #39;s reaction.