It’s such a scary and weird novel. I was suffering from nightmares while reading without drugs and alcohol. First off, this novel might be well-written with its tricky word choices and British cultural sarcasm (e.g. Londoners looking down on Newcastle), but of course, I didn’t understand it 100%, maybe just 34% or 19% as an English Beginner. Still, the story’s range, shifting from a bitchy artist’s ramblings to a nose-candy-fueled night, to pure romantic love from Tesco, to BRITISH PSYCHO, was incredible.
We should have detached emotionally from a novel like this, but the self-destructive lifestyle kept reminding us of our cringy youth. This intentional attempt to evoke our empathy was skillfully written, as I didn’t realize it until the very end. However, My reaction to the story was like, “Go straight to therapy,” but when someone starts to dislike themselves (even if they say they love themselves), who the hell can care?
The mentally fragile narrator’s storytelling was very uncomfortable. My feminist spirit tried to feel compassion for her when she got sexually assaulted or when she felt underestimated in the male-dominated art world, but the reality of her violence and the way she hid her paedophilic work (it’s mentioned from the beginning) just broke me. Yes, she’s just another slightly racist mom’s kid, funded by gay men who want to hang photos of young, slim boys or “artistic gore” in their homes. The world is sick. MAKE GREAT BRITAIN AGAIN.
When emerging artists think about gender, they often try to flip the script on their social position. But if you don’t add anything new, it’s just a mass-produced cliché. Unfortunately, her visual impact was easily absorbed by a bunch of lechs. Does that mean she’s just as bad as Johnny Kitagawa (the notorious producer who exploited young boys) or Abercrombie & Fitch with its exclusionary, problematic marketing? Her art teacher clearly said “You’re not making art here you’re making porn … The world doesn’t need more nasty, voyeuristic photography, does it?” Agreed, but not enough words to stop her.
I don’t want to read any more books narrated by dull narcissists, but she completely inhabited my world while I read. If she were in front of me, she’d roll her eyes at my accent and I’d probably need subtitles to understand what she was saying.