Oh gosh, I completely agree with you! D:

There was this one book I read awhile ago..
It was like.. No More Dead Dogs..
I kind of never wanted to read anything after that.
x_x

To Kill A Mockingbird was okay... I did like Atticus though. Maybe because it was required reading I didn't get attached to the book.

I once read this REALLY weird book about a detective who kept on speaking italian or something and dressed himself as a woman to go undercover... I dunno... it was a REALLY boring book on top of that.

Usually I get bored if the book goes too descriptive like in [edit]Spindle's End (really boring book... way too long and I get lost in the descriptions a lot...))... or if the book is hw, or if the book is just too far out of my league (like Lord of the Rings, which hurt my head after two pages... but back then, I didn't know all that vocabulary might've been that...))

I have a test on it tomorrow. D;

I'm a kid, so bleh. The most boring book I've ever read was my Chinese textbook XD

The most boring novel I've read to date is "The Dream Where Losers Go". Sure, I found it interesting when I read the summary. When I began reading it, I wanted to put the book down at page 30. The characters are all so boring, and basically have no personality. I'm not supposed to judge this book when I haven't even read 100 pages yet, but I don't think I want to continue. Things are just dragging out at school, and there isn't much about the main character's dream although that seemed like the main focus of the book. I mean, it just drags on and there isn't any progress except for at the beginning when she felt the prescence of another person in her dream.

Since I haven't read much of this book, I'd probably give it another try.

rate boring
 

there are a lot of boring books out there, i agree with most of your choices though Of Mice and Men maybe moving but reading it makes wall paint seem more exciting;
i have a guide to boring which you may find useful, from the best:

Books you'll read again and again
read once in a while
read once then never again
flick throughs
may look at but think better of it
take one look and think "nope"
Books that look so boring you wouldn't touch with a 30foot long happy pole.

If you find this useful i'm very :D for you

For a boring book, try Ethan Froam (Frome?).

'Tis one of the most boring books ever.

One of the wrost books I ever read award goes to Keeper of the Iris Light, though. There was no climax, little character developement and a really horrible ending. No loose ends tied up at all.

I would have to say, "Tale Of The Body Thief" by Anne Rice, "The Book Of Ralph" I can't remember the name of the author.
"Tale Of The Body Thief" was so predictable and boring that it was just draining to read it. Which is probably why I didn't bother with finishing it.
"The Book Of Ralph." just seemed like lame, amateur fiction to me.

to kill a mocking bird and teh catcher in teh rye were the books I detest,
to kill a mockingbird I found rather boreing, and confusing. some parts I didnt understand teh way iit was stated in the book, I had to ask my teacher about it, what made me detest it more was that I wrote 3 essays about it *grumbles*
catcher in teh rye... I detested that becuaes it was about this guy who was constently negative all teh time and swareing way too much to my liking. The class spent 2-3 monthes on it discussing it, and I wrote 4 essays about it. I suppose once someone has to weite an essay (or essays >.>) one would be sick of that book, esspessially discusing it for several monthes, rather boreing to me

I loved To Kill A Mockingbird I thought it was a really awsome book but that might just be me

but yeah, Redwall I think was the name of the book, it was about mice and they lived in an abby or something, I tried to read it like three times becuase my entire school had become obsessed with the series but it was just so terribly boring I'd rather watch a perapalegic try to walk...seriously, that book was awful

oh and I have to add this (even at the risk of being eaten alive)

did anyone else find Harry Potter extremely boring...that game made me want to cry out in pain it was so dull

No contest. Jane Eyre.

Here's an excerpt from the "novel" with my own thoughts in bold:

THERE WAS no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further outdoor exercise was now out of the question.

So why do we care about any of this? And LAWL at LEAFLESS SHRUBBERY. That just sounds ridiculous--and to think the novel is known for its descriptive narrative.

I was glad of it; I never liked long walks, especially on chilly afternoons: dreadful to me was the coming home in the raw twilight, with nipped fingers and toes, and a heart saddened by the chidings of Bessie, the nurse, and humbled by the consciousness of my physical inferiority to Eliza, John, and Georgiana Reed. The said Eliza, John, and Georgiana were now clustered round their mamma in the drawing-room: she lay reclined on a sofa by the fireside, and with her darlings about her (for the time neither quarrelling nor crying) looked perfectly happy. Me, she had dispensed from joining the group, saying, "She regretted to be under the necessity of keeping me at a distance; but that until she heard from Bessie, and could discover by her own observation that I was endeavouring in good earnest to acquire a more sociable and childlike disposition, a more attractive and sprightly manner -- something lighter, franker, more natural, as it were -- she really must exclude me from privileges intended only for contented, happy little children."

Okay... so what kind of child actually thinks like this? I know the novel was aimed at adults, but Bronte should at least try and get into the mind of her character.

"What does Bessie say I have done?" I asked.

LOL. Again, what kind of kid speaks like this? She's like... nine years old at the time.

"Jane, I don't like cavillers or questioners; besides, there is something truly forbidding in a child taking up her elders in that manner. Be seated somewhere; and until you can speak pleasantly, remain silent."

A small breakfast-room adjoined the drawing-room, I slipped in there. It contained a bookcase; I soon possessed myself of a volume, taking care that it should be one stored with pictures. I mounted into the window-seat: gathering up my feet, I sat crosslegged, like a Turk; and, having drawn the red moreen curtain nearly close, I was shrined in double retirement.

Folds of scarlet drapery shut in my view to the right hand; to the left were the clear panes of glass, protecting, but not separating me from the drear November day. At intervals, while turning over the leaves in my book, I studied the aspect of that winter afternoon. Afar, it offered a pale blank of mist and cloud; near, a scene of wet lawn and storm-beat shrub, with ceaseless rain sweeping away wildly before a long and lamentable blast.

Yawn. Way too many pointless details. We could care less.

I returned to my book -- Bewick's History of British Birds: the letterpress thereof I cared little for, generally speaking; and yet there were certain introductory pages that, child as I was, I could not pass quite as a blank. They were those which treat of the haunts of sea-fowl; of "the solitary rocks and promontories" by them only inhabited; of the coast of Norway, studded with isles from its southern extremity, the Lindeness, or Naze, to the North Cape--

Where the Northern Ocean, in vast whirls,
Boils round the naked, melancholy isles
Of farthest Thule; and the Atlantic surge
Pours in among the stormy Hebrides.

Nor could I pass unnoticed the suggestion of the bleak shores of Lapland, Siberia, Spitzbergen, Nova Zembla, Iceland, Greenland, with "the vast sweep of the Arctic Zone, and those forlorn regions of dreary space -- that reservoir of frost and snow, where firm fields of ice, the accumulation of centuries of winters, glazed in Alpine heights above heights, surround the pole, and concentre the multiplied rigours of extreme cold." Of these death-white realms I formed an idea of my own: shadowy, like all the half-comprehended notions that float dim through children's brains, but strangely impressive. The words in these introductory pages connected themselves with the succeeding vignettes, and gave significance to the rock standing up alone in a sea of billow and spray; to the broken boat stranded on a desolate coast; to the cold and ghastly moon glancing through bars of cloud at a wreck just sinking.

What is the point of all this?

I cannot tell what sentiment haunted the quite solitary churchyard, with its inscribed headstone; its gate, its two trees, its low horizon, girdled by a broken wall, and its newly risen crescent, attesting the hour of eventide.

The two ships becalmed on a torpid sea, I believed to be marine phantoms.

The fiend pinning down the thief's pack behind him, I passed over quickly: it was an object of terror.

So was the black, horned thing seated aloof on a rock, surveying a distant crowd surrounding a gallows.

My class was told that this is supposed to be foreshadowing. I think this sucks.

Each picture told a story; mysterious often to my undeveloped understanding and imperfect feelings, yet ever profoundly interesting: as interesting as the tales Bessie sometimes narrated on winter evenings, when she chanced to be in good humour; and when, having brought her ironing-table to the nursery-hearth, she allowed us to sit about it, and while she got up Mrs. Reed's lace frills, and crimped her nightcap borders, fed our eager attention with passages of love and adventure taken from old fairy tales and older ballads; or (as at a later period I discovered) from the pages of Pamela, and Henry, Earl of Moreland.

With Bewick on my knee, I was then happy: happy at least in my way. I feared nothing but interruption, and that came too soon. The breakfast-room door was opened.

"Boh! Madam Mope!" cried the voice of John Reed; then he paused: he found the room apparently empty.

"Where the dickens is she?" he continued. "Lizzy! Georgy! (calling to his sisters) Jane is not here: tell mamma she is run out into the rain -- bad animal!"

Lol again. I mean, where the dickens is she? :lol:

"It is well I drew the curtain," thought I, and I wished fervently he might not discover my hiding-place: nor would John Reed have found it out himself; he was not quick either of vision or conception; but Eliza just put her head in at the door, and said at once: "She is in the window-seat, to be sure, Jack."

And I came out immediately, for I trembled at the idea of being dragged forth by the said Jack.

"What do you want?" I asked with awkward diffidence.

[/b]Because we all know what awkward diffidence means.[/b]

"Say, 'what do you want, Master Reed,' " was the answer. "I want you to come here"; and seating himself in an arm-chair, he intimated by a gesture that I was to approach and stand before him.

John Reed was a schoolboy of fourteen years old; four years older than I, for I was but ten; large and stout for his age, with a dingy and unwholesome skin; thick lineaments in a spacious visage, heavy limbs and large extremities. He gorged himself habitually at table, which made him bilious, and gave him a dim and bleared eye with flabby cheeks. He ought now to have been at school; but his mamma had taken him home for a month or two, "on account of his delicate health." Mr. Miles, the master, affirmed that he would do very well if he had fewer cakes and sweetmeats sent him from home; but the mother's heart turned from an opinion so harsh, and inclined rather to the more refined idea that John's sallowness was owing to over-application, and, perhaps, to pining after home.

Okay, enough with the description. I think everyone gets it. John is a nasty child.

John had not much affection for his mother and sisters, and an antipathy to me. He bullied and punished me; not two or three times in the week, nor once or twice in a day, but continually: every nerve I had feared him, and every morsel of flesh on my bones shrank when he came near. There were moments when I was bewildered by the terror he inspired, because I had no appeal whatever against either his menaces or his inflictions; the servants did not like to offend their young master by taking my part against him, and Mrs. Reed was blind and deaf on the subject: she never saw him strike or heard him abuse me, though he did both now and then in her very presence; more frequently, however, behind her back.

Habitually obedient to John, I came up to his chair: he spent some three minutes in thrusting out his tongue at me as far as he could without damaging the roots: I knew he would soon strike, and while dreading the blow, I mused on the disgusting and ugly appearance of him who would presently deal it. I wonder if he read that notion in my face; for, all at once, without speaking, he struck suddenly and strongly. I tottered, and on regaining my equilibrium retired back a step or two from his chair.

"That is for your impudence in answering mamma a while since," said he, "and for your sneaking way of getting behind curtains, and for the look you had in your eyes two minutes since, you rat!"

Oh, wow. He's evil too. The stereotypical evil stepbrother. Back then, family members that weren't related by blood hated each other. No debate.

Accustomed to John Reed's abuse, I never had an idea of replying to it: my care was how to endure the blow which would certainly follow the insult.

"What were you doing behind the curtain?" he asked.

"I was reading."

"Show the book."

I returned to the window and fetched it thence.

"You have no business to take our books; you are a dependant, mamma says; you have no money; your father left you none; you ought to beg, and not to live here with gentlemen's children like us, and eat the same meals we do, and wear clothes at our mamma's expense. Now, I'll teach you to rummage my bookshelves: for they are mine; all the house belongs to me, or will do in a few years. Go and stand by the door, out of the way of the mirror and the windows."

Go Johnny boy! Lol.

I did so, not at first aware what was his intention; but when I saw him lift and poise the book and stand in act to hurl it, I instinctively started aside with a cry of alarm: not soon enough, however; the volume was flung, it hit me, and I fell, striking my head against the door and cutting it. The cut bled, the pain was sharp: my terror had passed its climax; other feelings succeeded.

"Wicked and cruel boy!" I said. "You are like a murderer -- you are like a slave-driver -- you are like the Roman emperors!"

I had read Goldsmith's History of Rome, and had formed my opinion of Nero, Caligula, &c. Also I had drawn parallels in silence, which I never thought thus to have declared aloud.

This is some lame attempt to make Jane Eyre sound enlightened, even in her youth. Yawn.

"What! what!" he cried. "Did she say that to me? Did you hear her, Eliza and Georgiana? Won't I tell mamma? but first--"

He ran headlong at me: I felt him grasp my hair and my shoulder: he had closed with a desperate thing. I really saw in him a tyrant: a murderer. I felt a drop or two of blood from my head trickle down my neck, and was sensible of somewhat pungent suffering: these sensations for the time predominated over fear, and I received him in frantic sort. I don't very well know what I did with my hands, but he called me "Rat! rat!" and bellowed out aloud. Aid was near him: Eliza and Georgiana had run for Mrs. Reed, who was gone upstairs; she now came upon the scene, followed by Bessie and her maid Abbot. We were parted: I heard the words--

"Dear! dear! What a fury to fly at Master John!"

"Did ever anybody see such a picture of passion!"

Then Mrs. Reed subjoined: "Take her away to the red-room, and lock her in there." Four hands were immediately laid upon me, and I was borne upstairs.

Oh my god. That was tragic. Except the real tragedy was the waste of my time since the damn book was like... 600 pages!

Lol. I usually love classics but some of them should just be put in a box, chained and locked in a basement... Like moby dick. Read it for school a couple of weeks ago and the hole thing is one big sleepingpill. Obsess much :P LOL.

to tell the truth, it was lord of the rings, the fellowship of the ring.

yea i know, it is a good book... but it just dragged on at the start a bit too much.

HARRY POTTER. Good lord I hate those books. Sooooo stereotypical and cliche, I could see everything that was happening from a mile away.

Also, pixore--
We have leafless shrubbery. In the winter. The shrubbery is leafless. I believe it says something about -- yup, there it is, cold winter wind.

I thought like that. |:

I spoke like that.

Some books are written with more detail, don't like it? Read snot like Eragon or Harry P.

I could go on... but I won't. Ah well, this is what I get for growing up near classics. I love you, Hugo...

War and Peace, Utopia, LOTR. All highly influential works by brilliant authors all hopelessly dry and hard to chew. Now.. that's more for boring.

For actual hatred... hmmm.
I really hate the most recent Anita Blake books.
Could I have the plot back please Hamilton? xD

Oh, the list of books that bored me to death is a very long one - mainly because I usually read anything that comes my way, so I'm bound to be disappointed with many titles...
Currently the top place of my most boring ones is "Moby Dick". When I was halfway through the book I thought I'd scream at every sea description there was left till the end xD

hmmm I read a little of The Golden Compass..but I couldn't get into it. It is coming out as a movie so hopefully it's not as boring as the book...it wasnt really boring..so much as it was just realllly slowwwwwww