You can’t judge a book by its cover, they say.
Or can you?
There are books, great big tall ones, that are nasty looking and whose content turns out to be as nasty as their covers. They can be deceptive, though: a few chapters may make you question your initial impression. Halfway through a particular book, for instance, you may wonder whether you were mistaken, and, for a moment, you believe it may have a place on your bedside table. Unfortunately, as you carry on reading you discover it supports the indefensible, and, a bit later, there are several particularly offensive quotes that amount to abuse (not just differences of opinion), which the book doesn’t bother to refute, and the true nature of the work is revealed. You persevere with it and give it a second chance and a third one, but, no, you were right. You are aware that other readers find it attractive – poor deluded souls – and are taken in by its ingratiating ways, especially towards the end, but you recognise the sour smell of hypocrisy and you know it would have been better to leave it on its shelf, with all the other uncivil tomes that clutter the cyber bookshop. It’s not even good enough for a charity shop; it deserves to be pulped.
You should have realised anyway that the title of the book referred to something you are allergic to.WinterWheat