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Muffy: or A Transmigration of Selves
"Muffy: or a Transmigration of Selves" is the thin, zigzagging, three dimensional line between brilliance and insanity. Gulik, a man who claims to be an enlightened immortal cockroach in the service of the Goddess of chaos, is an interesting blend of equal parts Tom Robbins, Robert Anton Wilson, and Jhonen Vasquez. He uses the theme of love as self destruction to form an eloquent crash course in the fundamentals of quantum mechanics. The story is original and every bit as funny as it is disturbing. It's the type of book that a young Countess Bathory might have kept in her bathroom. Gulik plays with taboos like a cat with a small snake and questions a number of axioms which are rarely addressed, if ever, in this PC nightmare which we have made for ourselves. This book is beautiful, depraved, thought provoking, bizarre, and absolutely not for children. This is transgressive literature at its best." - Claire Ashton, Society for the Debasement of Society. Muffy is the daughter of an extremely wealthy and powerful captain of industry and a famous lawyer. Fineries and privilege permeate her existence. Though publicly her life is perfect she lives in her own private hell; repeatedly raped by her father, ignored by her mother, and condemned to a life of meaningless acquaintances. One day she decides that it might be interesting to be raped by someone who she's not related to. She leaves home in search of adventure and is almost immediately captured by a female artist/serial killer who she quickly falls in love with. Soon she is plunged into the festering sore on the underbelly of society pursued by CIA, police, and Illuminati assassins. Her metaphysical crusade for truth, freedom, and love turns to carnage due to the unfortunate reality that she is completely insane.
204 pages, Paperback
First published June 21, 2007
2 people are currently reading
46 people want to read
About the author
S.T. Gulik
5 books24 followersS.T. Gulik is a magical cockroach.
He started life as a common wood roach in 1681, living in a small castle outside of Dublin. One day, a human alchemist blew himself up while trying to brew the elixir of life. S.T. survived the blast, but the fumes cursed him with self-awareness and immortality. A lot has happened in three-hundred-thirty-five years. Everyone he knew and loved has died. Vampire movies make him cry.
On the up side, he’s had countless adventures and learned many things. He worked for the goddess of chaos for one-hundred-twenty-three years. About thirty years ago, she turned him human and disappeared, which is fine because humans are smart and likable.
Oh, and he writes absurdist fiction. That’s important. Gotta mention that.
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January 27, 2009
(Reprinted from the Chicago Center for Literature and Photography [cclapcenter.com:]. I am the original author of this essay, as well as the owner of CCLaP; it is not being reprinted here illegally.)
As regular readers know, I'm spending the week finally making my way through a whole series of books I found only so-so, some of which have been in my reading queue for months now; but it's important, though, that you not mistake these books for merely bad ones, because if they were merely bad I would say so, given that I've had no problems doing such a thing in the past. Take today's book, for example, ST Gulik's Muffy: or A Transmigration of Selves, which is actually not bad at all for what it aims to be, just that what it aims to be is something that has only a tiny fringe appeal among the general public -- it is one of those ultra-violent, absurdly comic erotic tales in the style of the Marquis de Sade, only in this case updated for the Riot-Grrrl age and with cultural references more suited for contemporary sensibilities.
But make no mistake -- in the grand tradition of anonymous French radical erotica from the Victorian Age, projects like The Story of O and Story of the Eye, Muffy is most definitely not for the faint of heart, a story that combines sex and gore in such outrageous ways as to become nearly fantastical, used as a metaphor for the pleasures to be had in embracing an all-consuming prurient attitude about life. And also like most of these stories, the plot fueling Muffy is a simplistic one only -- the tale of a suburban girl sexualized too early in life, because of the systematic ritual abuse suffered from her dad throughout her childhood, leaving her as a late teen ready to go prowl the parks at night in hooker outfits just to see what kinds of empty thrills she can find. It's at this point that we're introduced to our deliciously evil antihero, a sadistic dominatrix and serial killer named Sarah, who makes millions fashioning sculptures of pain out of the actual tortured bodies of her victims, sold exclusively to the perverted little members of the Illuminati secretly running the government. (Why, two of her sculptures are even in the White House, although of course the general public will never be aware of this.) Sarah had originally kidnapped Muffy in order to turn her into her next sculpture, but now finds herself falling in love with this deeply compliant masochist; and thus do the two form a twisted love affair of sorts, using their ridiculously squeamish sex sessions as an excuse to give us audience members lessons on the basics of BDSM, the importance of anti-authoritarianism, and the framework behind various leftist conspiracy theories out there, just for good measure.
Yeah, not exactly an eager realist cautionary tale about the dangers of abuse, this one is; in fact, anyone tempted to be offended by a story like this is completely missing the point, that the author is deliberately mentioning the most disgusting things they can think of precisely to show how easy it is to manipulate the emotions of most of the brain-dead sheep actually running society. I mean, when a book within its first 50 pages features a scene of a baby being dismembered while still alive and its limbs used as sex toys, you know that you've firmly left the realm of reality behind and entered the land of symbolism; Gulik clearly means for all this outrageousness to serve the same purpose as radical erotica from the 19th century did as well, as metaphorical stories about how important it is to think for yourself, to make your own conclusions about the world, to define your own desires and wants away from the suffocating influence of so-called "normal society." Those who like this kind of literature get this, and it's for these reasons that they become fans to begin with; it's just that you need a strong stomach and thick skin to do so, else run the risk of being profoundly offended or even physically sick just within the first ten or twenty pages of stories like these.
Ultimately Muffy is exactly what such people are looking for, a tale that takes all the great things about vintage radical erotica and sheds all the petticoats and top hats, a story firmly rooted in the world of early Anne Rice and Poppy Z Brite, except much dirtier than the former and much funnier than the latter. It's just that there aren't very many fans of this stuff out there to begin with, and that those who aren't are sure to be disgusted and insulted by such a book; that's why it's getting an only so-so score today, despite being a fine example of what it's attempting to be. All of this should be kept in mind before picking up a copy.
Out of 10: 7.7
As regular readers know, I'm spending the week finally making my way through a whole series of books I found only so-so, some of which have been in my reading queue for months now; but it's important, though, that you not mistake these books for merely bad ones, because if they were merely bad I would say so, given that I've had no problems doing such a thing in the past. Take today's book, for example, ST Gulik's Muffy: or A Transmigration of Selves, which is actually not bad at all for what it aims to be, just that what it aims to be is something that has only a tiny fringe appeal among the general public -- it is one of those ultra-violent, absurdly comic erotic tales in the style of the Marquis de Sade, only in this case updated for the Riot-Grrrl age and with cultural references more suited for contemporary sensibilities.
But make no mistake -- in the grand tradition of anonymous French radical erotica from the Victorian Age, projects like The Story of O and Story of the Eye, Muffy is most definitely not for the faint of heart, a story that combines sex and gore in such outrageous ways as to become nearly fantastical, used as a metaphor for the pleasures to be had in embracing an all-consuming prurient attitude about life. And also like most of these stories, the plot fueling Muffy is a simplistic one only -- the tale of a suburban girl sexualized too early in life, because of the systematic ritual abuse suffered from her dad throughout her childhood, leaving her as a late teen ready to go prowl the parks at night in hooker outfits just to see what kinds of empty thrills she can find. It's at this point that we're introduced to our deliciously evil antihero, a sadistic dominatrix and serial killer named Sarah, who makes millions fashioning sculptures of pain out of the actual tortured bodies of her victims, sold exclusively to the perverted little members of the Illuminati secretly running the government. (Why, two of her sculptures are even in the White House, although of course the general public will never be aware of this.) Sarah had originally kidnapped Muffy in order to turn her into her next sculpture, but now finds herself falling in love with this deeply compliant masochist; and thus do the two form a twisted love affair of sorts, using their ridiculously squeamish sex sessions as an excuse to give us audience members lessons on the basics of BDSM, the importance of anti-authoritarianism, and the framework behind various leftist conspiracy theories out there, just for good measure.
Yeah, not exactly an eager realist cautionary tale about the dangers of abuse, this one is; in fact, anyone tempted to be offended by a story like this is completely missing the point, that the author is deliberately mentioning the most disgusting things they can think of precisely to show how easy it is to manipulate the emotions of most of the brain-dead sheep actually running society. I mean, when a book within its first 50 pages features a scene of a baby being dismembered while still alive and its limbs used as sex toys, you know that you've firmly left the realm of reality behind and entered the land of symbolism; Gulik clearly means for all this outrageousness to serve the same purpose as radical erotica from the 19th century did as well, as metaphorical stories about how important it is to think for yourself, to make your own conclusions about the world, to define your own desires and wants away from the suffocating influence of so-called "normal society." Those who like this kind of literature get this, and it's for these reasons that they become fans to begin with; it's just that you need a strong stomach and thick skin to do so, else run the risk of being profoundly offended or even physically sick just within the first ten or twenty pages of stories like these.
Ultimately Muffy is exactly what such people are looking for, a tale that takes all the great things about vintage radical erotica and sheds all the petticoats and top hats, a story firmly rooted in the world of early Anne Rice and Poppy Z Brite, except much dirtier than the former and much funnier than the latter. It's just that there aren't very many fans of this stuff out there to begin with, and that those who aren't are sure to be disgusted and insulted by such a book; that's why it's getting an only so-so score today, despite being a fine example of what it's attempting to be. All of this should be kept in mind before picking up a copy.
Out of 10: 7.7
December 19, 2008
I bought Muffy: a Transmigration of Selves after reading only a few internet blurbs (shame on me). None the less, I applaud the author, S.T. Gulik, for:
Teaching me to never buy a book written by an untrusted author without holding it in my hand (this will determine if I’m being fucked at the drive-thru).
Seeding interesting reviews on the Internet about her own book–when extremely incompetent in the writing department, be good at marketing.
Being an imaginative twelve-year old who accomplished an enviable feat of self-publishing for a junior high school student (a fact, I surmise, solely from the writing).
Real published authors–versus writers who print their own shite–are proofread by editors and publishers; most people can’t edit their own work to save themselves a tarring, feathering, and run-out-of-town-on-a-railing. Gulik is proof of this.
If you can’t hook me by page thirty, you don’t get read. Here are a few examples of Muffy’s totally-terrible first thirty:
...large, doughy breasts. (cliché)
...sweet childlike voice... (cliché)
...you’re pure as the driven snow. (cliché)
...ain’t nuthin worse than an uppity whore. (cliché)
...she saw for the first time the true face of evil. (cliché)
...a tsunami of nausea came crashing down upon her... (cliché)
...that looked more like a horrible train wreck than teeth. (cliché)
...howl of anguish which resembled the sound a cat makes when it’s in heat... (cliché)
...rusty green bench...; ...door soundlessly becomes one with the wall...; ...Muffy awkwardly fell upon the waffles, devouring them...; ...arched as painfully as it had been before. (all very trite adverbs)
...usually sobs and convulses for hours after an encounter...this time had been different. (mixed present and past tense, and use of passive voice)
She squeezed the animal tighter until it began to feel its bones splinter. (mixed point of view inside a sentence)
...she caught a glimpse of a small figure silhouetted in the doorway. It stepped out of the light and shut the door. At first the room was without form and void and darkness was upon the face of the girl. She could hear her captor’s footsteps as they circled her in the darkness... (jarring change in the writer's tone of voice)
“My name’s Sarah, what’s yours?” Muffy tried to speak but her mouth . . . the blue haired one saw the problem and... (misuse of pronoun convention; once a speaker is identified, don't use a pronoun)
She could only stare at the dog that was now licking at a puddle that was developing around the garbage can. Drunken gaiety gave way to anger as the feeling of being insulted grew in his belly. (mixed point of view inside a paragraph; ‘Drunken’ should have begun a new paragraph)
Some of the vastly-various verbs, and horrendously trite adverbs, surrounding almost all of the dialogue: Muffy remarked, Muffy sneered, he demanded, Muffy mused, Muffy nodded gravely, Muffy awed, Muffy squealed, Muffy grunted inquisitively, Muffy said in awe, Muffy whined, Muffy assured, Muffy pouted, Muffy declared, she asked proudly, she said with a giggle, Muffy asked in awe, Muffy cooed, Muffy continued to coo, Muffy nodded happily, Muffy pleaded, Muffy giggled. In fact, Muffy almost never, ever, just said or asked.
Can an average adult not say to them self: hey, this book is full of disgusting clichés and perverse grammatical usage. I won’t read it. And put it back on the shelf? (which is a slightly altered excerpt from Gulik’s own interest generating introduction-disclaimer). Although I would never consider myself average–yes, I can. And I can write about it all over the Internet so others are informed about a very poorly written book.
Teaching me to never buy a book written by an untrusted author without holding it in my hand (this will determine if I’m being fucked at the drive-thru).
Seeding interesting reviews on the Internet about her own book–when extremely incompetent in the writing department, be good at marketing.
Being an imaginative twelve-year old who accomplished an enviable feat of self-publishing for a junior high school student (a fact, I surmise, solely from the writing).
Real published authors–versus writers who print their own shite–are proofread by editors and publishers; most people can’t edit their own work to save themselves a tarring, feathering, and run-out-of-town-on-a-railing. Gulik is proof of this.
If you can’t hook me by page thirty, you don’t get read. Here are a few examples of Muffy’s totally-terrible first thirty:
...large, doughy breasts. (cliché)
...sweet childlike voice... (cliché)
...you’re pure as the driven snow. (cliché)
...ain’t nuthin worse than an uppity whore. (cliché)
...she saw for the first time the true face of evil. (cliché)
...a tsunami of nausea came crashing down upon her... (cliché)
...that looked more like a horrible train wreck than teeth. (cliché)
...howl of anguish which resembled the sound a cat makes when it’s in heat... (cliché)
...rusty green bench...; ...door soundlessly becomes one with the wall...; ...Muffy awkwardly fell upon the waffles, devouring them...; ...arched as painfully as it had been before. (all very trite adverbs)
...usually sobs and convulses for hours after an encounter...this time had been different. (mixed present and past tense, and use of passive voice)
She squeezed the animal tighter until it began to feel its bones splinter. (mixed point of view inside a sentence)
...she caught a glimpse of a small figure silhouetted in the doorway. It stepped out of the light and shut the door. At first the room was without form and void and darkness was upon the face of the girl. She could hear her captor’s footsteps as they circled her in the darkness... (jarring change in the writer's tone of voice)
“My name’s Sarah, what’s yours?” Muffy tried to speak but her mouth . . . the blue haired one saw the problem and... (misuse of pronoun convention; once a speaker is identified, don't use a pronoun)
She could only stare at the dog that was now licking at a puddle that was developing around the garbage can. Drunken gaiety gave way to anger as the feeling of being insulted grew in his belly. (mixed point of view inside a paragraph; ‘Drunken’ should have begun a new paragraph)
Some of the vastly-various verbs, and horrendously trite adverbs, surrounding almost all of the dialogue: Muffy remarked, Muffy sneered, he demanded, Muffy mused, Muffy nodded gravely, Muffy awed, Muffy squealed, Muffy grunted inquisitively, Muffy said in awe, Muffy whined, Muffy assured, Muffy pouted, Muffy declared, she asked proudly, she said with a giggle, Muffy asked in awe, Muffy cooed, Muffy continued to coo, Muffy nodded happily, Muffy pleaded, Muffy giggled. In fact, Muffy almost never, ever, just said or asked.
Can an average adult not say to them self: hey, this book is full of disgusting clichés and perverse grammatical usage. I won’t read it. And put it back on the shelf? (which is a slightly altered excerpt from Gulik’s own interest generating introduction-disclaimer). Although I would never consider myself average–yes, I can. And I can write about it all over the Internet so others are informed about a very poorly written book.
October 16, 2008
I still haven't finished this novel. Not because the book doesn't hold my interest (it does), but because I'm too weak. I could barely finish "American Psycho," and I find "Muffy" even more disturbing. Gulik is an awesome writer, and this is a very unique and well-written book. So if you have a strong stomach, I'd recommend this.
November 7, 2012
Is a terrible, awful self-published novel by a person who styles themselves "S. T. Gulik." Released in 2007, it is without a shadow of a doubt one of the most horrifically bad novels in the history of literature. In fact, it is so appalling that scientists predict that even if every last copy of it were burnt and the ashes blown up Gulik's arse with a rusty trumpet, the damage it would have done to the average writing skill of humanity would still be irreparable.
Naturally, I therefore had to read it so you didn't have to.
Executive Summary
Plotless wall to wall squick. Also, schlorp.
A little more detail, if you wouldn't mind?
Muffy is the protagonist and when we first encounter her, she's 14 years old and just been put to bed by her father. After he's bedded her, natch, and she's playing with his spunkum, which is still dewy in her crack. This is not the horridest thing in the novel by any stretch of the imagination. Nor is the fact that he won't go away till he is satisfied she's enjoyed it. Nor is it that she's then pimped out at age 14. Nor that she's then picked up by an uber rich artist-cum-serial killer called Sarah who produces "transgressive" artworks for top Governmental figures and the Illuminati out of dead people. It's this specific line:
"She pulled hard on the baby's arm and with a schlorp it was freed from Muffy's rectum."
THIS IS WRONG ON SO MANY LEVELS!!!!!!!!!
Firstly, schlorp.
Secondly, it would be abjectly horrifying if it wasn't for the schlorp. The schlorp, being an inherently funny and onomatopoeic yet very annoying word, makes it almost funny. There is nothing funny about the use of dead babies for sex toys outside of Sickipedia. Yet there is nothing horrific about the word schlorp. Congratulations. You fail at literature forever.
Then we read on, and discover that there is no plot whatsoever. There is no transmigration of selves. The entire novel exists as a way of stringing together the squickiest things that the author can come up with without let or hindrance until he/she/it has had enough, which is only after 193 pages thankfully. It's basically the literary equivalent of going scuba-diving in bile. The writing is also without any skill or judgement at all. Aside from the schlorp, and the gratuitous rape scenes, and the chapter entitled "A Father's Love," the content of which you can work out for yourself, there is also a chapter near the end called "Fuck you, who needs a title for a chapter anyway. Just fucking read." Not to mention the bit where Sarah forced an opal chopstick into Muffy's nipple. In between all this godawfulness, there are pseudo-intellectual rantings on why LSD is good because it makes your brain function more like it did as a child, ham-fisted swipes at radical ideas which have already occurred to others, and completely pointless details about how newspaper cartoons are unfunny. Not to mention the usual sniping at acceptable targets, like portraying Ronald Reagan as someone who doubled the national debt by buying off Sarah a sculpture made from a black family so it would help him get closer to minorities.
Let's deviate a bit here into the concept of mature content. Specifically, gratuitous squickiness. Those of you who have been paying attention will know that I like heavy metal. There's plenty of sex and violence in heavy metal, that's for damn sure. I don't have a problem with this. In fact, I like it because of that. But there are certain bands who insist on boosting up the gorno to unreal levels. Carcass, for one. Their first album, The Reek of Putrefaction, had on its cover a collage of dismembered body parts, blood, corpses, and poo. It was a non-stop growlfest from the opening bars of "Genital Grinder" through "Microwaved Uterogestation," "Festerday," "Splattered Cavities," "Oxidised Razor Masticator," all the way to "Malignant Defecation." Pretty unpleasant stuff, I'm sure you'll agree (though John Peel rated it as the best album of the year.) Unfortunately, there's one small problem with it.
It's all a bit shit really.
See, once you've got past the lyrics stolen from medical textbooks and the idea of trying to be brutal-er and gorier than everyone else, you realise that there's not much left after that. Now, thankfully, Carcass learnt from this experience and called the gorno quits after one more album (the much better "Symphonies of Sickness") and then called the band quits after four albums. However, other bands, like Cannibal Corpse, didn't, and are still about peddling the same nonsense as they were when they started out despite having plumbed the depths of absolute offensiveness with "Entrails Ripped from a Virgin's Cunt" and "Necropedophile."
And this is where Muffy goes wrong. The author fails to realise that ultra-violent rape-and-incest scenes are shocking because they're unusually horrific and you don't expect it. If you then fill your novel with wall-to-wall nastiness, it loses its impact. Readers don't care. It becomes, well, tedious. Once Muffy's been anally probed with aborted foeti, you've kind of already experienced everything this novel has to offer.
Yet the author continues with this, probably because he or she or it reckons they're being all clever and "transgressive" and challenging societal paradigms, and if you don't get it, well, you're just not on their level, are you. Basically, the whole novel is an attempt at baiting affectless no-account hipsters who think that stuffing spaghetti-o's up yer clacker is sticking it to The Man. In fact, that's what this novel is, really. Spaghetti-o clacker-stuffing in text form.
Also, schlorp.
(originally written for Everything2.com)
Naturally, I therefore had to read it so you didn't have to.
Executive Summary
Plotless wall to wall squick. Also, schlorp.
A little more detail, if you wouldn't mind?
Muffy is the protagonist and when we first encounter her, she's 14 years old and just been put to bed by her father. After he's bedded her, natch, and she's playing with his spunkum, which is still dewy in her crack. This is not the horridest thing in the novel by any stretch of the imagination. Nor is the fact that he won't go away till he is satisfied she's enjoyed it. Nor is it that she's then pimped out at age 14. Nor that she's then picked up by an uber rich artist-cum-serial killer called Sarah who produces "transgressive" artworks for top Governmental figures and the Illuminati out of dead people. It's this specific line:
"She pulled hard on the baby's arm and with a schlorp it was freed from Muffy's rectum."
THIS IS WRONG ON SO MANY LEVELS!!!!!!!!!
Firstly, schlorp.
Secondly, it would be abjectly horrifying if it wasn't for the schlorp. The schlorp, being an inherently funny and onomatopoeic yet very annoying word, makes it almost funny. There is nothing funny about the use of dead babies for sex toys outside of Sickipedia. Yet there is nothing horrific about the word schlorp. Congratulations. You fail at literature forever.
Then we read on, and discover that there is no plot whatsoever. There is no transmigration of selves. The entire novel exists as a way of stringing together the squickiest things that the author can come up with without let or hindrance until he/she/it has had enough, which is only after 193 pages thankfully. It's basically the literary equivalent of going scuba-diving in bile. The writing is also without any skill or judgement at all. Aside from the schlorp, and the gratuitous rape scenes, and the chapter entitled "A Father's Love," the content of which you can work out for yourself, there is also a chapter near the end called "Fuck you, who needs a title for a chapter anyway. Just fucking read." Not to mention the bit where Sarah forced an opal chopstick into Muffy's nipple. In between all this godawfulness, there are pseudo-intellectual rantings on why LSD is good because it makes your brain function more like it did as a child, ham-fisted swipes at radical ideas which have already occurred to others, and completely pointless details about how newspaper cartoons are unfunny. Not to mention the usual sniping at acceptable targets, like portraying Ronald Reagan as someone who doubled the national debt by buying off Sarah a sculpture made from a black family so it would help him get closer to minorities.
Let's deviate a bit here into the concept of mature content. Specifically, gratuitous squickiness. Those of you who have been paying attention will know that I like heavy metal. There's plenty of sex and violence in heavy metal, that's for damn sure. I don't have a problem with this. In fact, I like it because of that. But there are certain bands who insist on boosting up the gorno to unreal levels. Carcass, for one. Their first album, The Reek of Putrefaction, had on its cover a collage of dismembered body parts, blood, corpses, and poo. It was a non-stop growlfest from the opening bars of "Genital Grinder" through "Microwaved Uterogestation," "Festerday," "Splattered Cavities," "Oxidised Razor Masticator," all the way to "Malignant Defecation." Pretty unpleasant stuff, I'm sure you'll agree (though John Peel rated it as the best album of the year.) Unfortunately, there's one small problem with it.
It's all a bit shit really.
See, once you've got past the lyrics stolen from medical textbooks and the idea of trying to be brutal-er and gorier than everyone else, you realise that there's not much left after that. Now, thankfully, Carcass learnt from this experience and called the gorno quits after one more album (the much better "Symphonies of Sickness") and then called the band quits after four albums. However, other bands, like Cannibal Corpse, didn't, and are still about peddling the same nonsense as they were when they started out despite having plumbed the depths of absolute offensiveness with "Entrails Ripped from a Virgin's Cunt" and "Necropedophile."
And this is where Muffy goes wrong. The author fails to realise that ultra-violent rape-and-incest scenes are shocking because they're unusually horrific and you don't expect it. If you then fill your novel with wall-to-wall nastiness, it loses its impact. Readers don't care. It becomes, well, tedious. Once Muffy's been anally probed with aborted foeti, you've kind of already experienced everything this novel has to offer.
Yet the author continues with this, probably because he or she or it reckons they're being all clever and "transgressive" and challenging societal paradigms, and if you don't get it, well, you're just not on their level, are you. Basically, the whole novel is an attempt at baiting affectless no-account hipsters who think that stuffing spaghetti-o's up yer clacker is sticking it to The Man. In fact, that's what this novel is, really. Spaghetti-o clacker-stuffing in text form.
Also, schlorp.
(originally written for Everything2.com)
August 11, 2008
I happened across this book while I was in a local music shop. The cover instantly attracted me so I picked it up and started reading. After reading only a page I knew I wanted it so I paid for it and went home and started reading again. I didn't stop reading until I had devoured the entire thing. It made me so sad to finish that I turned back to the first page and started reading again (although this time forced myself take my time and make it last a few days). Gulik has a way of keeping your eyes glued to the page despite the fact that certain scenes make you feel like a horrible person for liking them. He offers a fresh and intelligent perspective on many issues, while keeping the story, characters, and dialog completely engaging. I would definitely recommend this novel to anyone who enjoys having their eyes opened. I can't wait to see what Gulik comes out with next.
March 13, 2008
I wrote this one.
Read
October 5, 2008A description of the mindset
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