I'm mostly amused but sometimes bemused by people who can't get over the fact that I didn't like a book they liked. They suggest a book or an author, and before I can stop myself, I say something like, "I tried it (or read it) and didn't care for it." Suddenly it's as if I proclaimed that I really enjoyed the last time I sawed off someone's legs. By the look on the person's face, I know I've been relegated in her mind to idiot. She might say something to indicate that I obviously didn't try hard enough. She might begin a long series of arguments designed to convince me that it really was the best book ever, if I'd just open my closed, tiny little mind. And there may be intermittent comments for the rest of eternity on the subject: "I can't believe you don't like..." or to others, "She doesn't like..." With an nasty little inflection on "she," as if I'm another species entirely.
Come on! I don't expect you all to love the Green Bay Packers, Hershey bars, and khaki pants. Can't I have a little leeway in my wide reading tastes to decide that this author or that one just isn't my cup of tea?