About the Library of Agony

Once, there was a man with no name. He left his house with no name and ventured into a city with no name. In the town square, which probably does have a name but we don’t care about it, there was a fellow who professed himself as the Literary Devil and had two with little bells that made the subtlest of dinkle-dinkle noises pierced onto the corners of his mouth. Nobody knows why – the general consensus was that he was just a brain-dead weirdo.

“Can anyone be a better critic of terrible books than I?” he screamed to the onlookers, who were doing something else and tried their best to ignore him. “I challenge anyone with enough hubris!”

The man with no name lifted a hairy fist and spoke up: “Sure, I’ll do it.” His name was changed to The Hellbrarian, and he was instantly transported to Literary Hell. It was a gigantic underground library, lit only by dim oil lamps made out of skulls.

“All right,” said the Literary Devil, standing on a pedestal made of ghostwritten books by celebrities “since you were so kind to accept my offer, you will pay the price. You must read every book in this library – each one more eye-knottingly awful than the next – and write reviews of them on a blog. If you succeed, I will tell you the meaning of life. If you fail… you’ll become a character in a Tea Partier’s sword-and-sorcery novel with political undertones.”

“Who are you again?” said the Hellbrarian.

But he vanished.

And now… this blog is the result.

…help me.

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