The Hunger Games: A Review

Now, I know I have previously declared a glaringly obvious love for Harry Potter and I also know that that is a rather predictable love. But usually, I am not one to follow the latest hype. I like to believe that I think outside the box, choose the less popular option and find something much more private and beautiful and mine. There’s an intimacy, I believe, when you find an unknown literary treasure that you don’t get with any other art form.

But then there were the Hunger Games.

Cue the hundreds of statuses on facebook; cue the familiar book cover obscuring the face of every teen on the local bus service; cue your every friend condemning you for not reading them because they are just ‘sooooooooooooooooo amazing.’

Quite frankly, I found the pressure crippling. So I caved and tentatively crept on to the ever expanding band wagon.

And found myself an overnight addict.

They may not be eloquently written, they may not be as intricate as more mature novels, but at the end of the day, the story is gripping. I surged through all three books in a matter of days and found myself pondering them for hours afterwards.

To me, a good book calls to something deeper within you than those surface feelings of rage or happiness, romance or war. Like a sponge, we absorb the secrets of the characters, the dilemmas of the plot. And at the finish line, we discover that along the way, we gave up a bit of ourselves to it.

Surprisingly, the Hunger Games joined the collection of the few tales that affect me in a way I don’t entirely understand. I felt inspired and scared and exhausted all at once. It was wonderful.

So give them a read. For those of us too proud or timid to try, pretend you’re reading it as a favour to your child or sibling. For I promise that if you do…



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