Some books promise greatness but deliver disappointment. Luckily, we’ve braved their pages so you don’t have to experience the same literary letdowns we did.

The War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells - Ben Birch (Arts Editor)

Boring. Bitter. Overblown.

It is remarkable to me that this book remains a part of the literary canon. For good reason, it is a text more often spoken about than read. Indeed, people speak of books earning themselves a place amongst the great classics; to my mind, Wells and his sci-fi acolytes must have been sneaking his book onto the ‘classics’ shelves of bookstores for years because no self-respecting vendor would knowingly sell it. Ultimately, the book is one man’s fantasy about blowing up the leafier parts of late 19th-century London and his hatred of the encroaching suburbs. If this sort of writing appeals to you then by all means indulge your own bad taste, but don’t say you weren’t warned beforehand.

The Magic of Reality by Richard Dawkins - Ryan Vowles (Arts Writer)

Naïve. Repetitive. Inane.

A NatSci I may be, but a Dawkins fan I am not. I confess, I enjoy his writings on biology and evolution, but he has a terrible habit of stumbling beyond his expertise. ‘What is reality? ’, ‘What are things made of? ’, ‘Why do bad things happen? ’, just to name the titles of some especially weak chapters. Though his metaphysics seem to consist of A-Level Biology and GCSE Physics, he writes with the confidence of Aristotle. If you’re inexplicably looking to revise your Year 11 Science or take pleasure in the floundering of someone who’s out of their depth, this is your book. Otherwise, steer clear.

On the Road by Jack Kerouac - Emma Tenzler (Arts Writer)

Overvalued. Rambling. Sexist.

Hailed as the classic text of American counterculture, as subversive, jazzy and oh so ahead of its time, Jack Kerouac’s On the Road (1957) may be better off being left in the knapsack. The roman à clef chronicles the adventures of Sal Paradise (modelled after Kerouac himself) and Dean Moriarty (Neal Cassady), as they flee from claustrophobic, consumerist, post-war America. The virulent sexism that taints any male-female interaction, however, distracted me from Kerouac’s rambling odes to the beauty of the land or the meaning of existence. Beaten and assaulted, infantilised and objectified, the women in On the Road are the one-dimensional props to this male identity project. Rejecting such a deified book may seem too radical. But if you´re, like me, suffering from the current overexposure to patriarchal violence and are reluctant to engage with misogyny in fiction as well, I recommend leaving this particular ‘classic’ unread.

The Alchemist by Paul Coelho - Bryony Clarke (Arts Writer)

Simple. Underwhelming. Overrated.

A controversial choice, especially for a Portuguese student. Yet, when I finally picked up The Alchemist last year, I was left with a profound feeling of disappointment. A book heralded as life-changing by modern philosophers and self-help fanatics alike, the story is one of generic characters, underdeveloped description and almost insultingly simple morals. Perhaps it was the first of its kind, but I would direct anyone interested towards one of the many more complex and satisfying iterations. Kung Fu Panda, for example, offers an infinitely more moving delivery of “the treasure was there, and nowhere, all along…”

The Drowned World by J.G. Ballard - Amy Brian (Arts Writer)

Slow. Lazy. Derogatory.

When first challenged to read The Drowned World for A-Level English, I was looking forward to reading one of the first climate-conscious dystopian novels of the 20th century. Instead, Ballard’s pace is continuously confusing, and his plot is often distracted by the explicit misogynistic and racist overtones which permeate the entire text. While Dr Robert Kerans and his team of scientists grapple with the downfall of humanity, fleeing from giant lizards along the way, the only female character, Dr Beatrice Dahl, lounges in a bikini, reading a gossip magazine under the post-apocalyptic sun. (You couldn’t make it up.) She is consistently referred to by her first name, while the other doctors are addressed by their professional titles and surnames (e.g., Colonel Riggs). Meanwhile, Captain Strangeman’s predominantly African crew remain nameless, villainised, and dehumanised. Ballard’s rich metaphors and immersive environments cannot redeem the book from its blatant bigotry and sluggish pacing. I read it just three years ago, and honestly? I’ve forgotten most of the events. Thank God.

American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis - Niall Quinn (Arts Writer)

Anticlimactic. Elusive. Stubborn.

I have a confession to make: I don’t loathe this book with every fibre of my being. Rather, my attitude toward it is ambivalent. I like the concept, its themes, and (dare I say) the manner in which those two things are expressed. Yes, it is certainly not a light read. Chapter after chapter, particularly in the middle, covers Patrick Bateman’s paradoxical life: consumed by the toxic culture of conformity in his office, he resorts to extreme nonconformity by murdering, assaulting, and consuming innocent people. Conceptually, this book is exceptionally stirring: it imparts a very nuanced comment on the nature of corporate culture in the 1980s, particularly in the United States. Its issue, however, lies in its lousy denouement. Instead of remaining clear, it resorts to the ambiguity card. But, unlike other observational texts of the period (The Handmaid’s Tale springs to mind), this is not executed well. After spending such a great deal of time fleshing out Bateman’s character, the decision to imply that it was ‘all in his head’ is disappointing. Even the author, Bret Easton Ellis, has expressed regret about this decision.

Don Juan by Lord Byron - Emily Cushion (Arts Writer)

Self-conflicting. Laborious. Aimless.

Reading Don Juan in its entirety was the least ‘epic’ thing I have ever done. Lord Byron takes an upsetting number of stanzas to metafictionally explore his own strengths and weaknesses as a poet - something that is theoretically interesting but, practically, incredibly tedious to read. Through each of the poem’s painful 16,000 lines and 17 cantos, I found myself wondering whether Byron always remembered that he was writing a satire. He painstakingly develops powerful romantic lyric, only to later undercut and dismiss his own verse in a way that left me questioning if I, an English student, have any concept of what good writing is. It might be written in ottava rima, and sure, it may well represent an exciting and transgressive deviation from the traditional epic, but neither of these qualities mitigates the delirium induced by reading 500 pages of verse that doesn’t even seem to believe in itself.