I read a book last night, but I’m not going to tell you about it. My pleasure in the book, which was great, must remain undiluted. It will ever be mine and mine alone. At the very least, I won’t have to share it with you.
There’s the pretty little book now, on the shelf, gleaming, unsullied by your squinting eyes or prying fingers. I would sooner burn it than let you know so much as its title.
Go find a book of your own. Stop pretending to be helpless. Buy a book and a chair. Sit in the chair and read the book, or read as much as you have patience for. Then you can write a “review” of it and the world will thank you.