I threw it overboard.

On the long haul from San Diego to Hawai'i, a seaman will read 
anything that falls to hand, just to break the monotony. This 
could be a cake recipe, a telephone bill, or the instructions 
on how to work the toilet--- ANYTHING will do for reading 
material, when one is facing 22 days of open, blue-water ocean 
and nothing else to do but stare at waves.

Anything will do, that is, except John Grisham's "The Chamber."
It does not distract from the monotony of a weeks-long passage: 
it greatly compounds the tedium. It is a chore to read: there
is no pleasure in it. Indeed, at times it greatly aggravated,
if not even induced, seasickness.

The reader is not induced by the author to care about the 
characters in the book; no one cares if the old man gets gassed 
(indeed, the reader can hardly wait, just so the book will 
finally end); the reader does not care about the disgusting 
alcoholic aunt; and the reader certainly is not inspired to 
care about the spoild, personality-less main character (I mean, 
like, he's a -LAWYER- after all!). These people were written 
like cartoon characters: so trite and predictable that they 
could have been written by any one of ten thousand high school 
students who write the same dreck (dreck: "trash; exceedingly 
inferior merchandise") as a homework assignment.

When I finished reading the book (ah, sweet mercy! Another ten 
pages would have killed me!), I vowed that no one else who came 
abord the vessel after me would be subjected to the same abuse.

I took a nice fat felt pen and wrote the book's own obituary on 
the inside cover. "We consign this literary pile of steaming 
dingo poop to the deep watery abyss; to forever sleep in the 
yawning canyons of black, fathomless, liquid purgatory forever 
out of the reach of mankind; to remain there for ever and for 
ever, with the sure and present hope of -NO- ressurection. We 
also humbly apologice to Poseidon for polluting Your realm with 
this insulting offal."

I then tossed the book overboard, 1180 nautical miles from the 
nearest land. I imagined ever sea denizen within a hundred 
miles felt the shock of impact, smelt the strong, foul odor, 
and hasty fled in terror. No doubt those creatures not fast 
enough, succumbed to the toxin and died, floating belly-up.

Do yourself a big favor: if you see John Grisham's "The 
Chamber" washed ashore on the beach one summer day, approach no 
closer! Rather, call the Environmental Protection Agency and 
have them come out and clean it up. Same warning goes if you
see this book in a book store.