Alison at ShelfTalker has a post with lots of juicy comments about books loved by everyone but you.
I'm usually reluctant to dish out criticism online. In the past, a few too many random people have taken my criticism of a freakin' book as cause to insult me personally, and that hurts my feelings more than I want to admit. (Yes, I am thin-skinned; sue me; just don't pick on me!)
Second, I'm afraid that someday I'll meet the authors and they'll hate my guts because I was vocal about hating their book. And I know it could happen, because I've already met very cool authors of books I couldn't stand. (If you're reading this, there's a 99.99% chance it was not you.)
Third, life's too short to accentuate the negative. Since I'm not a professional critic, I'd rather save my scathing remarks for late night literary conversations with friends. It's more fun that way.
I suppose I ought not to be shy about criticizing books by people who are bestselling authors or dead, because neither gives a fig what I think. And I will say that I share the opinions of several commenters on the ShelfTalker post. However, my fourth reason for not posting about books I hate (and I will have to break my own rule to give it) is this:
Hands down, the worst book I have read in my entire life is The Celestine Prophecy, by James Redfield. It is a literary black hole. It is Absolute Zero. It is the most clumsily written, ridiculously plotted piece of pseudo-spiritual dogmatic hooey ever to hit the mainstream—much less hit the bestseller list. It's hard to complain about any other, knowing it is still out there, lurking in libraries and bookstores and people's bookshelves at home, waiting for someone to open the cover. I challenge anyone to name worse.