I have mixed feelings about this book. I love the format, and the first half had me spellbound with dread, eager to see how much worse things would become. The section titles are so evocative and took my imagination to places that I was a bit disappointed to discover were more depraved than the book's reputation had promised. I really wanted more development of the relationship and, as weird as this might sound, darker and more extreme territory for these characters to explore. I guess that having read things like The Story of the Eye and Earthlings, it takes more than a

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tapeworm

to rattle me. Also,

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why didn't Agnes or Zoe just order tapeworm eggs off of the internet or something? I guess that the spoiled meat scene evokes more visceral disgust, but I just kept thinking that there must be an easier way.

One thing I really liked, though, is how

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LaRocca complicates the reader's perception of the characters. I started the book thinking that it would be a relatively straightforward story of Agnes's exploitation, but by the end I was almost more afraid of her desperation and nihilism than I was of Zoe's bored cruelty.

This was gross, weird, and went in directions that I didn't expect. Rough around the edges in ways that a lot of readers won't like, but this year I've learned that I can certainly ignore some comma splices if I'm fascinated enough. Harms is working with a lot of ideas about the cis and medical gazes, the politics of passing, and the fetishization of trans bodies that I would love to see played out in a longer novel. If I ever write the dissertation I'm playing with in my head, I'll devote a chapter of it to Transmuted.

I was already at least partially a Paul Tremblay believer, having read A Head Full of Ghosts a few years ago, but I put off reading The Cabin at the End of the World until a friend's recommendation reminded me to get around to it.* I'm glad that I did, as this harrowing novel is the best bad time I've had in a while. It asks the reader what they would do in the characters' places, offering few helpful guideposts and no satisfactory answers. The horror arises from that ambiguity, along with the sick feeling of watching characters you care about make one unfortunate decision after another, knowing that their options are limited and their capacity for reason is compromised. It all ratchets up into a haunting conclusion that seems tailor-made to piss people off and that guarantees I will never stop thinking about this book.

Also, the first chapter is a master class in setting tone and building tension. If you can read the first chapter without getting hooked, then I don't know what to say. You're a very different reader than I.

*I put off reading more Tremblay in general, because I started Disappearance at Devil's Rock but could not get into it. I will be revisiting that one, though, because now I've decided to read Tremblay's entire oeuvre.

Edit 7.18.21: I just read Tremblay's liner notes for this book, and I love what he has to say about the conclusion (both because it's well-put and because I agree with it):

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My defiant hope for you is that this book ultimately becomes about the choice Eric and Andrew make and not whether or not the world is actually ending. I mean, shit, their world has already been definitively shattered, don’t you think? The book is about the choice: do they and do we choose fear or that most defiant of all hopes, love?

It's so hard to write Goodreads reviews for acclaimed books when they actually deserve their acclaim. Beloved is one such book. Brilliant, harrowing, and scary, more for the real-life horrors that it portrays than for the supernatural elements (though the supernatural images of bodies atop bodies and rivers and people with no skin are disorienting and chilling). I wish that any of my history teachers had assigned this book in class during lessons about slavery, because it gave me so much to think about and reconsider in regards to how the subject is taught and discussed.

Oh god, I don't know what to say. I honestly think that this is the scariest book I've ever read in my life. Toward the end, I had to cover the page with my hand to keep my eyes from jumping ahead and relieving my anxiety.

Scary is a subjective thing, and I know that there are people for whom this book doesn't work, and I mean, whatever. That's fine. But I don't quite understand it. Because for me, at least, Josh Malerman has crafted a horror novel that's terrifying (and sad) on all levels, permeated by a deep sense of wrongness that's hard to describe without sounding hyperbolic.

I read and watch a lot of horror. It's where my mind likes to hang out. And typically I approach the genre from an intellectualized place, where I kind of float over the scenes and take them apart and feel fascinated by how they work (or disappointed by how they don't work). Usually I have a lot of empathy for monsters.

But this time, I felt like I was right down in it with the characters, wanting to leave my light on at bedtime like a little kid.

And Other Mommy? She can fuck right off.

Utterly brutal, tragic, and exquisitely well-written. Full review to come, maybe, when I let this book settle in my mind and pick my jaw up off the floor.

Edit: Okay. So about ten years ago now, I went through a grit lit phase, which mostly involved me reading a lot of William Gay and also Knockemstiff, Donald Ray Pollock's short story collection. I remember not loving it, grudgingly acknowledging that it was well-written but overall feeling kind of beaten down by the unrelenting cruelty of the stories.

Fast forward to this year, when I became obsessed with Preacher's Daughter by Ethel Cain. In the process of looking for books that feel similar to that album, I discovered that Hayden really likes The Devil All the Time, so I decided to revisit Donald Ray Pollock and see if perhaps my sensibilities have changed a bit.

And holy smokes, I'm glad that I did, because this book is such an achievement. The prose just flows into your mind like water. The characters are so vivid. This is a master class on how to write shocking sentences, how to depict tragedy without tipping over into sentimentality, and how to write explicit violence without your descriptions becoming gratuitous.

Mostly driven by setting and character, the book weaves together the stories of various people in two different towns in Ohio and West Virginia, and much of the pleasure of reading it is seeing how these characters' lives brush up against each other and eventually converge, almost always in horrible ways. You have a kid who watched his family torn apart by death and religious desperation, a couple of road-tripping serial killers, a crooked sheriff, and a former charismatic preaching duo on the lam for murder and reduced to a circus sideshow act. I described it to someone as The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter for psychopaths, and I was being facetious, but I don't think it's the worst way to elevator pitch it.

There's an ensemble cast, but Arvin is the character you actually dare to hope for, the one that you like, and the one whose plot most clearly demonstrates the through line of being stuck in a cycle of violence. I could spend a lot of time outlining parallels and demonstrating how satisfying it is to observe them, but I don't want to. I'd rather you read the book and see for yourself. I don't want to take anything away from your experience.

Highly recommended for fans of tragedy laced with absurdity, staring into the abyss, grit lit, and books that exemplify "the Fates already fucked me sideways."

Boy oh boy, is Pretty Girls a thriller that delivers on its dark promises. I had been meaning to read it for quite some time, and the final bit of persuasion I needed was hearing Hailey Hughes talk about it on her YouTube channel. This was my first Karin Slaughter, and I was not disappointed!

I will say that this is not a book for everyone. The entire plot centers around something that is absolutely repugnant (ahem

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snuff porn

), so if that is something that you would like to not read or think about, do not read Pretty Girls. But if you are willing to read about that sort of thing in order to also read a gripping story about the ways that tragedy can rip a family apart and, in this case, bring them back together, then I think that this is the book for you.

Also, it has one of the most "good for her" paragraphs that I've ever read.

I read this for writing research, because I'm writing a character who is a (very different sort of) nun, and I wanted to get a better grounding in the day-to-day of monastic life and to get a sense of what it feels like to experience a religious calling. I got that, as well as a fascinating look into the drama of a convent descending into toxicity and abuse. I really enjoyed Coldstream's lyrical writing--even when her experience sounded undeniably awful, I still wanted to wander around the convent grounds--and her narration on the audiobook.

I don't even know? 2.5? The concept of this completely hooked me--documentary film crew goes to a ghost town where something scary happened years ago!--but the execution was not my favorite. I had a hard time emotionally connecting with the characters or the present-day plotline, but I kept reading because I was invested in the past timeline and the underlying mystery. Unfortunately, the pace felt really slow and unnecessarily drawn out after awhile because I solved the mystery and only kept reading to find out if I was correct. (I mostly was, barring one act of God.)

Please note that the only resemblance this bears to Midsommar is the fact that it's set in Sweden and has a character with a developmental disability who lives in a hut. That comp is such a wild leap.

Because I'm not above picking up a juvenile nonfiction book for quick, reliable information! I became interested in the role black people played during the American Revolution because of (wait for it) Hamilton. This is a good concise introduction, and it includes resources for further research. I think I might have gotten an idea to add to my American Revolution fantasy/romance novel that I daydream about writing.