This book is conversely essential. I could not read any more than page 44, due to the torture of Little Eddie. The fact that I cannot read through that awful horror is proof to me that such taboo can make my heart thud, and I should remember for fear that I should ever doubt my humanity.
In all honesty I had to pause and look up a word, because I didn't want to use the word ‘horror' twice in the same sentence. The only other word I could think of was ‘wrong', but it didn't feel weighty enough.
The fact that a story of a psychopath/sociopath can provoke such a rush of feeling(s) proves to me that I have the capability for empathy for an entity that is entirely created only by thoughts, mutually inspired by myself and the author.
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I added a new shelf because I hope I should only need to encounter one book that makes me feel deeply human in such a dark, twisted way.
