I hate almost all mainstream book awards because they’ll generally pick the top five most boring-ass books about white men having mid-life crises published in the past year, meanwhile absolutely wonderful so-called genre books are completely ignored.

In my opinion, the best book of last year was Jo Walton’s Among Others. It was far better than at least two of the books on the NBA list that I’ve also read. Far, far better, really.

It pisses me off to no end that Walton’s masterpiece is ignored just because it had some fairies, but Eggers’ somnambulistic male midlife crisis book-curse of the month club is chosen.

Makes no damn sense.