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by Ernest Cline
In the year 2044, reality is an ugly place. The only time teenage Wade Watts really feels alive is when he's jacked into the virtual utopia known as the OASIS. Wade's devoted his life to studying the puzzles hidden within this world's digital confines—puzzles that are based on their creator's obsession with the pop culture of decades past and that promise massive power and fortune.
In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since.
When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow.
It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much.
"If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want the truth."
Mr. Jones, of the Manor Farm, had locked the hen-houses for the night, but was too drunk to remember to shut the popholes.
The boy with fair hair lowered himself down the last few feet of rock and began to pick his way toward the lagoon.
Where's Papa going with that ax?" said Fern to her mother as they were setting the table for breakfast.
A few miles south of Soledad, the Salinas River drops in close to the hillside bank and runs deep and green.
In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.
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