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A review by shonari
Heavenly Chaos by Daniel Schinhofen
1.0
Let's play a drinking game! Take a shot every time Daniel Schinhofen mentions "friends are good" or sprinkles in the same tired tropes you've read a hundred times before. Warning: you might not make it past chapter ten.
This book is like playing an RPG on repeat with a broken "new game+" button. Change the names, slightly tweak the backstory, rinse and repeat the same essence over and over again. The characters? Cardboard cutouts with "trauma" scrawled on them for depth. The plot? It moves like molasses because the author seems to be hitting a word count quota by literally repeating himself. Benedict's backstory? Painfully tragic—but told with all the finesse of a "this is your sad origin story" meme.
And let’s not ignore the blatant circle jerk going on with the themes. Every other page, the narrative pats itself on the back for being "deep" while characters spout hollow platitudes. It's like Schinhofen thought if he repeated "friends are important" enough times, he'd summon a personality for these paper-thin archetypes. Spoiler: he didn’t.
Oh, and let’s not forget the fetish vibes Schinhofen tries to shove onto the page but fails to translate into anything coherent. I couldn't tell if I was supposed to sympathize with Benedict, root for him, or just pour another drink.
This book gets one star because I can't give it zero. Would I read the rest of the series? Only if I lost a bet.
This book is like playing an RPG on repeat with a broken "new game+" button. Change the names, slightly tweak the backstory, rinse and repeat the same essence over and over again. The characters? Cardboard cutouts with "trauma" scrawled on them for depth. The plot? It moves like molasses because the author seems to be hitting a word count quota by literally repeating himself. Benedict's backstory? Painfully tragic—but told with all the finesse of a "this is your sad origin story" meme.
And let’s not ignore the blatant circle jerk going on with the themes. Every other page, the narrative pats itself on the back for being "deep" while characters spout hollow platitudes. It's like Schinhofen thought if he repeated "friends are important" enough times, he'd summon a personality for these paper-thin archetypes. Spoiler: he didn’t.
Oh, and let’s not forget the fetish vibes Schinhofen tries to shove onto the page but fails to translate into anything coherent. I couldn't tell if I was supposed to sympathize with Benedict, root for him, or just pour another drink.
This book gets one star because I can't give it zero. Would I read the rest of the series? Only if I lost a bet.