Carla

Reads like the most enjoyable movie. Hope it is made into one someday; I the right hands it could be marvelous and horrifically immersive.

I love how the author leaves some whys to the reader, without tying everything up in a bow.

I am a different—and better—person than I was before I read this novel.

Dark of the invisible moon. The nights now only slightly less black. By day the banished sun circles the earth like a grieving mother with a lamp.

Stream of consciousness dystopia, the end of the world as a flowing prose poem, sifting through the reader’s mind like the ash on the road.

I know this novel might seem unapproachable, or even painful, given the state of our world right now, but let me tell you, I feel like I have experienced a catharsis. I feel a wee bit stronger and ready to face the monsters than I did. My mind has been given a good cleanse, or a good shaking.

If reading about others’ trauma (I tried to be as helpful in the trigger warnings as I could) would be a problem for you in any way, do not read this book thinking it would be an interesting exploration of women in horror. It is an autobiography of mental illness and dysfunction, and that is putting it carefully and mildly.

I wanted to rate this one higher. At points I deeply enjoyed it; this shows at the speed at which I listened to it. But the author doesn’t do the best job of explaining why her history of mental illness, domestic violence, and childhood abuse is relevant to share within this topic of female neuroses in horror films. And does she share—to a detailed extent that could be called grotesque. I feel exhausted now, almost like I have witnessed something deeply traumatic happen. I didn’t need to know everything she has thought, felt, and experienced ever that could relate to female hysteria, abuse, and neurosis as portrayed in horror, but I received it anyway in painful, sometimes excruciating detail. There is catharsis in reading and watching horror, there was none here, and I am left feeling like I need a hug or a nap. This should not be.

Remember: I say all this as someone with advanced degrees in psychology and counseling, and post-grad work in Forensic Anthropology and Sex Crimes. So, if I am uncomfortable, it might be a warning. Just something to mull over.

I also have to mention that, a good 80-90 percent into the book, it got worse, because the author casually used the r-word, as in referring to an adult behaving like an r-word child. I should have stopped reading. I regret not doing so.

This is the second supposedly-seminal book about the horror genre that has been painful to read, the first being Carol J. Clover’s Men, Women, and Chainsaws—I DNF that one. Both this year. I’ll just reread Kim Newman’s Nightmare Movies, Alexandra West’s books on French extremity and 90’s teen horror, and Stephen King’s Danse Macabre if I feel the urge for this type of book again. No slurs, no trauma, and no misuse of Freud (Clover—trust me, it became gross).

I think I need to go outside and get some vitamin D.

Sensitive, thoughtful, and careful journalism. I can see why the author was awarded for his coverage of the case.

3 1/2 ⭐️The narration for this audiobook is top notch, but I would still recommend against it, because this story is complicated. Extremely. Harwood is quite talented in weaving disparate details into a multilayered mystery. This one is particular has not only several moving parts, but many, many characters and two generations. I think I got a little lost in parts due to its complexity, the audio format, and the switching of narrators.
That being said, it also has the most creative seance cabinet ever, and it is extremely evocative of mid-19th century London.