It would be an interesting experiment to read this book in one sitting, though it’s doubtful any reader would be able to shake it off easily if they did. There is space for the reader to crawl away in disgust, but the pace leads on to take in yet another nugget of pain.
Short sentences pepper the page, doing their job to get the story out. The irony is that the reader will also be using their eyes to experience in detail his sick experiences. Some women seem to be playing the same game as him, “whatever that is,” he says. He also says that their eyes draw him in. He says he has honest eyes that helped him dupe girls into loving him. As his exploits grow increasingly sadistic, he both semi-rapes and beats up women, without pleasure or remorse.Įyes are a theme. At the beginning of the book, he is careful to tell us he has never physically hurt a woman.
When he is dumped unceremoniously and left heartbroken and angry by his long-term girlfriend Pen, he decides on a suicide mission of emotional sexual attacks on any girl that he can get into bed. The protagonist is struck with the curse of being a handsome and magnetic flâneur, a drunken creative to whom women gravitate, and fall in love. The hype that follows this book is intense, and continues today even after ten years, and will be the primary reason any reader may pick this book up.Īn Irish ex-alcoholic creative confesses to his past emotional abuse of women, with the opener, “I liked hurting girls.” Somewhere between JT Leroy and Bret Easton Ellis, the anonymous author looks back with some regret – and some pride and sentiment – to the times that have shaped him to reach the place he greets us from, a near-future from the events told.
It is impossible to know if this book is literally a confessional of someone who then published as fiction, because the author remains unknown.
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