Since I've been bored with this whole argument for quite some time as well as your condescending attitude, I'll just pick out Hunger, since I'd just recently read it (and hated it) and it's a good example of my problem with 'classics'. The basic plot, what there is of one, is about a guy starving to death on the streets of Oslo. The story is told from the first person and the narrator is unnamed. He also has very little characterization beyond "starving, crazy, suicidal, pathological liar." He tries to maintain a front of respectability, to the point where he actively gives away money and food because keeping up appearances is more important to him than not starving to death. He sort of trundles on and on for rather too long (232 pages in my edition of the book) before suddenly BAM he finds a job on a ship bound for England and is saved, apparently- deus ex machina of the worst kind.

The worst part about the book is that it has no point. Oh look at this guy, he's starving and crazy. THAT'S THE ENTIRE BOOK. It's a load of self-indulgent wash with no redeeming value, yet apparently it gets praised as the beginning of modern literature (it was published in 1890) because the author (who I should note, was an advocate for Hitler and the Nazis) picked up a few prose tips from his time in the United States.