What kind of a person is it who relishes reviewing the books he hates and quails at the thought of reviewing his five-star books? 
 It would appear that that could be a description of me. Well, the reason's obvious - it's great fun to boot a bad book and some bad ideas all around this site, a chance for a few jokes, a laugh, a song and a hand grenade, a couple of pints of Scruttock's Old Dirigible and everyone goes home with a smile on their face, no harm done. Not so easy to describe greatness, something so strange and awe-inspiring that your keyboard falls silent, abashed. So this is the book, this Blindness novel, which was so hard to read, so painful, so strange, so brilliant, that I don't really want to sing its praises or recommend it to everyone because everyone won't like it and those who do might not be glad they read when they finally fall over the threshhold of the last page back into the light of some sort of sanity and order we hope, and look back and shudder. Well. You have to read this one, but I didn't tell you to.