We learn what the narrator deems unlearnable. As though, despite the anonymity, we all learn the story further. The way that the narrator tells everyone, but Penelope, to stop reading for a paragraph just makes it more readable. He juxtaposes the apology, that may be sincere, with the verbs such as ‘hurt’, ‘despise’, and ‘rippled’, as well as the holophrase ‘Disgust.’ This creates a simplicity that was obviously not apparent in their relationship: they were not a simple couple, but perhaps the narrator wanted to make their “break” simple. The writer creates the semantic field of pain in this paragraph, to show that he is strong enough to cause pain in others. I began to hate you for not having the courage to tell me what you really thought of me. You tried to hide how you felt, but it rippled across your face. The rest of you turn your heads away the next bit is for her only. ‘The possibility exists that she’s out there somewhere reading this right now. But, when he is telling the story of Penelope, who is his ex-long-term-girlfriend, and the one who he enjoyed hurting, the narrator directs Penelope by saying: It makes sense that if the writer is telling an autobiographical story, he wouldn’t want people to know that he had lived this life. I studied the alley that the anonymous writer wrote down, and I tried to decipher whether the narrator of the novel is actually the writer himself. For me, however, it made me more intrigued, despite being a young woman myself. The reader may perceive this, despite the past tense, as a current hobby and will make them turn away. Although, we must take note of the past tense of the word ‘liked’, because this implies that the narrator has changed since he ‘liked’ hurting girls. The book begins with a declarative sentence which would make any feminist turn away after reading just these words: I liked hurting girls. We follow a monologue of an anonymous author. But, we do know his past, and he has become the victim of the cliché a taste of his own medicine. Had we not known his past in romantic abuse, we would see this as a sinful act of the devil on the woman’s part. *I am reminded of (white) reviews I read on Yaa Gyasi's "Transcendent Kingdom", which complained it didn't live up to the depths of "Homegoing".We are stuck in a fantasy of: despising the ruinous narrator for his lack of female acceptance, and the harm he causes people for the fun of it, crossed with feeling sorry for him because he is, too, hurt by women replacers of himself. Solidly entertaining, not earth shattering. I was curious if and when there would be plot twists. While I can't claim to have thought much about it whenever I set it down, I did generally want to read "just a little more". So is it a good book? I found it in a Little Library and started reading on my walk home. Perhaps if anything I appreciate a book (and the discomfort) that inspires me to investigate such questions within myself. I would ask yourself, if this book is so offensive am I being triggered and if so what other "great" novels are triggering to other populations? Should they then be discredited because of the harm they cause? I don't have the answer but all these questions arise for me. And again I would ask, if it is, then how does one feel when reading about children forcefully separated from their families, women beaten and raped, nations divided by political unrest, blatant acts of discrimination, abject poverty? I assure you I have felt much more uncomfortable than this. I don't believe being uncomfortable is inherently bad. This goes against our social contract and therefore puts us at unease. It can be uncomfortable at times, I believe in part because we live in a society that believes one should never admit to intentionally causing harm. As a thought experiment I found it intriguing. It's written from the perspective of the aggressor rather than the victim. This book is about a very angry and probably sad alcoholic who takes his pain out on others. Yet are we confusing our dislike of such people for the dislike of a book? Are they one in the same? And if so, why does this society compel minority authors to almost exclusively publish on their suffering? If it is mistreatment that is so appalling, why do we punish minorities who stray away from the gory details of their oppression and reward them for laying bare their hurt and humiliation for the sake of our voyeurism?* It can be uncomfortable to read a misogynist being openly misogynistic. It's not surprising to me that this book is controversial.
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