I have just been "book-tagged" by the freelancer's fashion blog: I have to grab the book that's next to me, open it on page 123 and quote the fith sentence plus the following three.
My nearest book was one I finished last Sunday, and, while I really liked it, it did leave me feeling a little glum. It was actually a book my friend lent my fiance, but I picked it up and found it hard to put down.
"Are–are you Kilgore Trout?"
"Yes." Trout supposed that Billy had some complaint about the way his newspapers were being delivered. He did not think of himself as a writer for the simple reason that the world had never allowed him to think of himself in this way.
Kurt Vonnegut Slaughterhouse 5
It is a good job it wasn't the last book I read, as Puss in Boots did not quite stretch to 123 pages! Which I think is a shame. I love his jaunty yellow boots. Cheery mood duly restored.