Geek Love

This book was so NOT about angsty teen love (which is why my high school self picked it up), but rather about a family of genetic freaks and their love for each other. I'm really glad that it turned out to be the latter instead of the former because otherwise it probably wouldn't be worth remembering. As it is this is a very, very good book, one that randomly pops into my thoughts even though I haven't read it in years.

First, let me say that I'm not generally a fan of this style of writing. I don't much like Palahniuk and other similarly twisted-for-the-sake-of-twisted authors. That said, the subject matter of this book is fascinating. I've always been drawn to the concept of freak shows, dark circuses, and the like, so I did enjoy that part of the novel. However, the narrator falls into my most-disliked trope: she's a total pushover, completely weak-willed. I'm pretty sure this is supposed to have some sort of significance when interpreted correctly, but I was too annoyed by her to figure it out. A lot of the scenes seemed to be written purely for shock value instead of advancing the plot, as well. I wouldn't recommend it unless you're a fan of this genre.

It's appropriate that I'm writing this review on Valentine's Day. Dunn will rip your heart out, stomp on it, and then leave you to tend to your own wounds. But you can't even really resent her for it, because she's so damn funny. This book, about a family of traveling carnies, is deliciously, uncomfortably twisted. I'm not totally sold on the ending, but I think it might grow on me over time as the only possible way for things to have ended.

One of the better descriptions of childhood:

“It is, I suppose, the common grief of children at having to protect their parents from reality. It is bitter for the young to see what awful innocence adults grow into, that terrible vulnerability that must be sheltered from the rodent mire of childhood.

Can we blame the child for resenting the fantasy of largeness? Big, soft arms and deep voices in the dark, saying, “Tell Papa, tell Mama, and we'll make it right.” The child, screaming for refuge, senses how feeble a shelter the twig hut of grown-up awareness is. They claim strength, these parents, and complete sanctuary. How deep and sticky is the darkness of childhood, how rigid the blades of infant evil, which is unadulterated, unrestrained by the convenient cushions of age and its civilizing anesthesia.

Grownups can deal with scraped knees, dropped ice-cream cones, and lost dollies, but if they suspected the real reasons we cry they would fling us out of their arms in horrified revulsion. Yet we are small and as terrified as we are terrifying in our ferocious appetites. We need that warm adult stupidity. Even knowing the illusion, we cry and hide in their laps, speaking only of defiled lollipops or lost bears, and getting a lollipop or a toy bear's worth of comfort. We make do with it rather than face alone the cavernous reaches of our skulls for which there is no remedy, no safety, no comfort at all. We survive until, by sheer stamina, we escape into the dim innocence of our own adulthood and its forgetfulness.”