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A vampire novel of a different stripe - one that would make Charlaine Harris throw up and stay awake from nightmares for a month. An examination of a tortured and corrupted mind and of the dripping and bleeding over that occurs from one inhuman act of brutal violence to another.
I didn't find this either terribly interesting or effective. Perhaps it sounds better in French than in translation - but it lacks plot, character, there is no development, it is essayistic but its reflections are not terribly original or memorable.
Swift and short. Mixing horror imagery with "just the (horrible) facts, Mme." And at the end, with your heart in your throat, you take a breath along with the author and somehow you are clinging to your faith and maybe crying a little. Based on a true story. Packed such a wallop I'm going to try...
Eeeek! Pretty gross!
This short book, the last that Chessex wrote, reminded me of Duras's L'Amant, which I read a few weeks earlier. In both, we have the author, knowing they were near death, trying to make sense of something which had haunted their dreams since their childhoods. For Duras, it was her first affair, when...
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