Grey.

 

Lately it feels like I have a lot to say about grey.

Firstly, it occurred to me to discuss it as it is such a lovely colour, I find. It’s so easy to combine with almost any other colour and it’s so comforting somehow. There is nothing hostile about grey; it’s cosy and homey and good. You can hide behind it or you can sparkle with it, depending on the day.

Now, the opposite of all the positive feelings associated with the colour grey can be said about Fifty Shades of Grey. It might possibly be the most horrendous book I’ve ever read. The expectations weren’t high to begin with. The book failed to meet the lowest of expectations.

I can see why one would want to read a book like this. It’s an entertaining topic, maybe a bit off limits, quite brave and out of the ordinary. Perhaps there is some escapism involved as well.  Now, in my humble opinion, this is a story that would be much better on screen. In written form it’s a waste of paper.

Sorry ladies and gentlemen and anyone who enjoyed this piece of art, I cannot take a book seriously if it’s as badly written, as repetitive and with such a lack of (witty) imagination as this particular masterpiece. Someone please tell me what the following sentence actually means: "I must be the color of the communist manifesto."

So, no. I would not recommend this book to anyone. If you want entertainment, look for Boris Akunin. If you want something spicy and beautifully erotic, you could start with Pablo Neruda: