by James Vinson
I will admit, I have not read Suzanne Collins’ critically acclaimed teenage fiction entitled The Hunger Games. And I am glad for it. Having observed a frothing sea of jaded fourteen year old girls (and boys) swooning, sobbing, and scowling at the film’s sporadic spurts of fidelity to their cherished novel, I feel privileged that I did not share their anxieties for the future of the series when I left the cinema.
