Diary of an Oxygen Thief

This is a strange book. I don't mean it has endearing quirks or interesting oddball ideas – it's strange because the writing is irregular in tone and quality, the pacing erratic, the settings somehow clear yet myopic, rambling. Not bad per se, but definitely adventurous down the wrong fork in the road.

It's a book about a self-loathing and reads like an extended greentext. The author drags you through his demented world as if he's recanting the events to a therapist, complete with the expectation that you'll pick through the narrated wreckage and refrain from kicking him out in disgust.

Not that your disgust should be very visceral, that is. The infantile “beatdowns” delivered in the first half of the novel were so glib as to be almost not worth the space they take up. A simple “I like abusing women – that's the premise” would have been as effective.

As for the entire ending scene...if you were able to cultivate any sort of emotional response from beneath the author's hack affectations (switching to second-person? stripping dialogue? why, to illustrate his mental haze and absurd paranoia? He's sober for god's sake!) and bizarre chain of events, you would probably be left thinking...is that it? Is that all they can muster? He hurts them and they stage weird pantomimes about his manhood and spike his drinks? Why are there so many people just hanging around like villainous stooges, laughing like extras in a comedy?

The narrator is 35 or thereabouts by the time the novel ends, but I'm betting Anonymous is in his early twenties. If you want to real novel about sexist misanthropy read Mishima's Forbidden Colours instead.