This is a book that makes you think, then feel, then fall completely silent. It isn’t written to please you, it’s written to unravel you. And that, in itself, is its brilliance.
The author possesses an extraordinary sensitivity to language. Her sentences feel hand-sculpted, each one chiseled with purpose and emotion... never accidental, never empty. At times, that density makes the prose demanding, but once you surrender to its rhythm, you realize the words aren’t meant to decorate the page; they’re meant to move, pulse, and breathe. This is the rare kind of writing where style becomes emotion itself — where syntax carries the weight of chaos, fear, and love better than any metaphor ever could.
Jo searches for a manuscript for her thesis, and what begins as academic curiosity turns into descent. The manuscript opens a door between philosophy, magic, and the unbearable gravity of reality. Jo believes she’s studying a text, but in truth, she’s dissecting her own soul.
The opening feels quiet, cerebral, almost opaque... a deliberate test of patience. It reads like the work of someone who has read too much, thought too deeply, and blurred the line between fiction and existence. But beneath that stillness, something stirs. The book slowly reveals its true form, one that is alive, raw, and shattering.
By the midpoint, the tone fractures. The prose sharpens, emotions thicken, and the rhythm shifts from contemplative to visceral. What once felt like fantasy transforms into a psychological meditation on destructive love; a study of what it means to love both the person and the darkness devouring them, and to try to save both, even when salvation is impossible.
Of the Wicked and Broken isn’t written for comfort. It’s written for reckoning. It lingers, it aches, it devours, and somewhere within the ache, it becomes something close to truth. It’s not a story you simply read, it’s one you survive. And that is what makes it unforgettable.