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689 reviews
A Sunny Place for Shady People: Stories by Mariana Enríquez
By now, it should come as no surprise that I am a massive fan of Enriquez's writing, and despite the fact that, none of these short story collections can come close to the brilliance that was Our Share Of Night, all of them are still incredible pieces of horror literature, and A Sunny Place for Shady People is no exception. There's just something so otherworldly about how these stories worm their way into your brain, there's something so intense and intimate about the way in which they consume you. They're all quiet, and somber, the kind of horror that simmers away in the background, waiting for its chance to ruin us. Bizarre, yet terrifying, highly arresting and deeply affecting, A Sunny Place for Shady People is a fantastic collection that casts its light upon the overlooked and underappreciated.
"The ghost girls ran in desperate circles, and their wailing was truly terrifying. Their confused desperation. Had they only just realized that they were dead? How unfair: usually the dead have the good fortune not to see themselves decompose, even when they return as ghosts."
4.0
"And the hyenas started to sing. There's no other way to describe it. They laughed and howled, but their chorus held a certain aesthetic sense, horrible and funereal: the anticipation of an infernal pack of hounds tasked with preventing our escape and enjoying their task deliriously."
It is, at this point, an undisputable fact that Mariana Enriquez knows how to write horror, she's the master of the short story collection. Often times writing in a strikingly empathetic and oppressively bleak manner, Enriquez presents us with something so very sad and so incredibly haunting with this novel. A Sunny Place for Shady People gives a voice to the overlooked and marginalized voices, it twists the seemingly mundane and average into something foul, something feral, something fucking horrible. This collection focuses heavily on real world horrors that are tinged with a hint of the supernatural, and its strong suit is the grotesque, gruesome and gnarly body horror that's present throughout.
Something really wonderful about this collection is that it makes Buenos Aires feel alive, all of these stories feel so refreshing, so different and interesting from the slew of US and UK centric horror, Enriquez always delivers an interesting perspective, but it's with A Sunny Place for Shady People that it's so much more distinctive. These are some weird stories, they feel extremely surreal and abstract, they're stories of subtlety and vagueness - oftentimes with very open endings, too. Despite the hazy obscurity of these tales, there's a whole heaping of violence, some really brutal, disturbing and vile scenes that're told with a disgusting clarity. It's some real brilliant stuff.
It is, at this point, an undisputable fact that Mariana Enriquez knows how to write horror, she's the master of the short story collection. Often times writing in a strikingly empathetic and oppressively bleak manner, Enriquez presents us with something so very sad and so incredibly haunting with this novel. A Sunny Place for Shady People gives a voice to the overlooked and marginalized voices, it twists the seemingly mundane and average into something foul, something feral, something fucking horrible. This collection focuses heavily on real world horrors that are tinged with a hint of the supernatural, and its strong suit is the grotesque, gruesome and gnarly body horror that's present throughout.
Something really wonderful about this collection is that it makes Buenos Aires feel alive, all of these stories feel so refreshing, so different and interesting from the slew of US and UK centric horror, Enriquez always delivers an interesting perspective, but it's with A Sunny Place for Shady People that it's so much more distinctive. These are some weird stories, they feel extremely surreal and abstract, they're stories of subtlety and vagueness - oftentimes with very open endings, too. Despite the hazy obscurity of these tales, there's a whole heaping of violence, some really brutal, disturbing and vile scenes that're told with a disgusting clarity. It's some real brilliant stuff.
"I understood that if he was crying with me there beside him, it was because what he felt was unbearable. He drove so fast that I was scared the car would break down, that a tire would fall off. I was scared of anything that would leave us stranded near that sad house in the southern suburbs, with the desolation that the black-eyed children had left behind, with what remained of Flora and her dying brother dripping down the walls of their house."
By now, it should come as no surprise that I am a massive fan of Enriquez's writing, and despite the fact that, none of these short story collections can come close to the brilliance that was Our Share Of Night, all of them are still incredible pieces of horror literature, and A Sunny Place for Shady People is no exception. There's just something so otherworldly about how these stories worm their way into your brain, there's something so intense and intimate about the way in which they consume you. They're all quiet, and somber, the kind of horror that simmers away in the background, waiting for its chance to ruin us. Bizarre, yet terrifying, highly arresting and deeply affecting, A Sunny Place for Shady People is a fantastic collection that casts its light upon the overlooked and underappreciated.
"The ghost girls ran in desperate circles, and their wailing was truly terrifying. Their confused desperation. Had they only just realized that they were dead? How unfair: usually the dead have the good fortune not to see themselves decompose, even when they return as ghosts."
Monstrilio by Gerardo Sámano Córdova
God, it's just so crushing. Perhaps this is one of, if not, the most memorable and shocking family dramas out there. So, so wonderfully, perfectly written, so strange, so bleak. It's a struggle, to even define a book as weird, but, brilliant as this. Just because this isn't strictly a horror novel, it doesn't mean we're spared, well, anything really. It's full to the brim with horrific, vile, gruesome and graphic scenes, enough to churn the stomachs of even the most ardent horror fans. Monstrilio is truly, an impressive feat, a remarkable and insanely fantastic debut. This is an unforgettable novel, there really is not much out there that's like this.
"In her fantasies - is it too morbid to call them fantasies? She doesn't think so. In her fantasies, her son died in a shopping mall, one of the big ones in Mexico City, because in a mall there is an audience, and she wanted an audience but thought dying in the street was too sordid."
4.0
"He wipes his tears. Like he shouldn't be crying. But he cries more. Not loud. Ghostlike. Heavy. Like his pain isn't only from the bite. Like its deeper. Marrow deep. Eat, he squeaks."
Monstrilio is wildly refreshing, deeply confusing and utterly unique exploration of grief presented as part monster story, part family drama. It's said that this is horror but it's more... Horror-lite. It's not here to frighten us into nights without sleep, rather, Monstrilio aims to disgust us with its unflinching and fearless portrayal of grief and loss. This certainly isn't the typical monster story that any of us horror fans are used to, this is truly something more, something magical and enrapturing. Monstrilio is pure brilliance. This is such a lonely, eviscerating novel, it's so, so raw and evocative. Split into four different POVs, Monstrilio so tenderly explores anguish from so many different angles, this makes the story move a lot slower, sure, but, here, the wait is more than worth the reward.
Reading Monstrilio is like watching the world crumble to dust across the passing centuries, it's a delicately unfurling, horrific beast of a story, and its so damn beautiful, so gorgeous and incredibly sad. There's no doubt about it, this is an emotionally taxing novel - its nauseating, refusing entirely to shy away from anything, instead opting to expose us to the grotesque reality of death. It's one of those rare novels that bites a chunk out of your heart, so it can hold on to it forever. The tradeoff here, is that this is not a scary novel, it's so far removed from your traditional horror tale, while yes, this is loosely, a story about a monster - it's also an obliteration of the soul, a searing, shocking, brutal family drama with the occasional sprinkling of horror throughout.
Monstrilio is wildly refreshing, deeply confusing and utterly unique exploration of grief presented as part monster story, part family drama. It's said that this is horror but it's more... Horror-lite. It's not here to frighten us into nights without sleep, rather, Monstrilio aims to disgust us with its unflinching and fearless portrayal of grief and loss. This certainly isn't the typical monster story that any of us horror fans are used to, this is truly something more, something magical and enrapturing. Monstrilio is pure brilliance. This is such a lonely, eviscerating novel, it's so, so raw and evocative. Split into four different POVs, Monstrilio so tenderly explores anguish from so many different angles, this makes the story move a lot slower, sure, but, here, the wait is more than worth the reward.
Reading Monstrilio is like watching the world crumble to dust across the passing centuries, it's a delicately unfurling, horrific beast of a story, and its so damn beautiful, so gorgeous and incredibly sad. There's no doubt about it, this is an emotionally taxing novel - its nauseating, refusing entirely to shy away from anything, instead opting to expose us to the grotesque reality of death. It's one of those rare novels that bites a chunk out of your heart, so it can hold on to it forever. The tradeoff here, is that this is not a scary novel, it's so far removed from your traditional horror tale, while yes, this is loosely, a story about a monster - it's also an obliteration of the soul, a searing, shocking, brutal family drama with the occasional sprinkling of horror throughout.
"Night is when we're hungriest. And hunger can be magnificent. I stare at the half-washed dishes. I fight to push the dread out. I pretend my time as Monstrilio is hazy. Muffled sounds and blurred colours. I say I remember warmth. But I don't say I miss my fur. I don't say I'm hungry because my hunger is what makes everyone scared. They are happy to believe I forgot how they maimed me."
God, it's just so crushing. Perhaps this is one of, if not, the most memorable and shocking family dramas out there. So, so wonderfully, perfectly written, so strange, so bleak. It's a struggle, to even define a book as weird, but, brilliant as this. Just because this isn't strictly a horror novel, it doesn't mean we're spared, well, anything really. It's full to the brim with horrific, vile, gruesome and graphic scenes, enough to churn the stomachs of even the most ardent horror fans. Monstrilio is truly, an impressive feat, a remarkable and insanely fantastic debut. This is an unforgettable novel, there really is not much out there that's like this.
"In her fantasies - is it too morbid to call them fantasies? She doesn't think so. In her fantasies, her son died in a shopping mall, one of the big ones in Mexico City, because in a mall there is an audience, and she wanted an audience but thought dying in the street was too sordid."
In the End, You Kill Us Both by V. Ivan
If something you love in literature is reading about unhinged, disgusting, messy, toxic people and their earth-shattering love for each other, if you love when gore is described as beautifully as the most intoxicating poetry, if you love when horror is examined so sensually, it's like laying next to your lover in bed, then this is the book for you. There's a deep, dark, extremely dank sadness that hangs over this novel. Something about the way that this author writes, it's just... It's captivating, it felt like it expunged my soul. In the End, You Kill Us Both made me feel so seen I craved obliteration. It's a mortifying experience, it's skin crawlingly horrific, it's foul and festering, and a marvelous example of queer horror done right.
"I swear I could always feel it - my repentance, just waiting below the surface, biding time. I used to have really nasty dreams over it, but once I hit the Echo, y'know - they stopped for the most part. Got replaced by other things. I was convinced that the Devil would come for me in my sleep and drag me through the floor into a fiery pit, where I'd burn and burn forever."
4.5
"I envisioned their teeth framed around my gnawed-on wrist, against a mound of pink, pretty tissue, blistering with nodules and pockets of white fat - a sensation I'd supposedly never feel. Snaking jealousy sized my throat and warped my breath."
In the End, You Kill Us Both is surrealist horror at its very finest, at its very best - it's like experiencing the most luscious of nightmares, like a dream that's melting, like memories that are fading away. It's just so, so very weird, in the very best possible way. It's a novel that's all teeth and drool waiting to drag you down into the depths of Hell. In the End, You Kill Us Both is horrendous, foul, and, so damn beautiful - poetic, yet ugly too, destructive, yet healing. What a monstrous novel, an apocalyptic hellscape. Grim, gritty, grimy, coated in filth and rot and ruin, this is a heart-shattering, gut-wrenching tale, a drug fueled, hazy, brutally confusing masterpiece. Reading In the End, You Kill Us Both made me feel like I needed to take the longest shower of my life so I could scrub the skin off my bones.
Is there anything better than a gore soaked, blood splattered tale of terror, revenge, and ghoulishly toxic queers? It's both vicious and grotesque in just the right ways, akin to the strangest, most horrible of acid trips. Brutal. Intense. So utterly easy to get lost in, all too easy to be absorbed by. This is the single most defining story of haunting, all-consuming love that surpasses anything on this earth. You know that feeling, when you love someone so strongly that they haunt every part of your life? That's what this novel feels like. Disturbing and bloody, it's a slow motion car wreck, it's a smoldering, stinking pit, stained with gasoline and reeking of death. What a deeply disturbing reading experience this turned out to be.
In the End, You Kill Us Both is surrealist horror at its very finest, at its very best - it's like experiencing the most luscious of nightmares, like a dream that's melting, like memories that are fading away. It's just so, so very weird, in the very best possible way. It's a novel that's all teeth and drool waiting to drag you down into the depths of Hell. In the End, You Kill Us Both is horrendous, foul, and, so damn beautiful - poetic, yet ugly too, destructive, yet healing. What a monstrous novel, an apocalyptic hellscape. Grim, gritty, grimy, coated in filth and rot and ruin, this is a heart-shattering, gut-wrenching tale, a drug fueled, hazy, brutally confusing masterpiece. Reading In the End, You Kill Us Both made me feel like I needed to take the longest shower of my life so I could scrub the skin off my bones.
Is there anything better than a gore soaked, blood splattered tale of terror, revenge, and ghoulishly toxic queers? It's both vicious and grotesque in just the right ways, akin to the strangest, most horrible of acid trips. Brutal. Intense. So utterly easy to get lost in, all too easy to be absorbed by. This is the single most defining story of haunting, all-consuming love that surpasses anything on this earth. You know that feeling, when you love someone so strongly that they haunt every part of your life? That's what this novel feels like. Disturbing and bloody, it's a slow motion car wreck, it's a smoldering, stinking pit, stained with gasoline and reeking of death. What a deeply disturbing reading experience this turned out to be.
"I still fought the urge to call over the banister to tell Georgia that I understood - that if her children were afraid of the howling demon I'd made of myself the week before, writhing and sweating through fractured dreams and migraines like interspersed lobotomies in a bed that had once belonged to someone else, then I couldn't blame them. If she was afraid, and if she'd had guilt about forgetting me because I'd been so strangely quiet without the withdrawals, well, she could let go of that too. I was always either howling in pain or hardly there at all."
If something you love in literature is reading about unhinged, disgusting, messy, toxic people and their earth-shattering love for each other, if you love when gore is described as beautifully as the most intoxicating poetry, if you love when horror is examined so sensually, it's like laying next to your lover in bed, then this is the book for you. There's a deep, dark, extremely dank sadness that hangs over this novel. Something about the way that this author writes, it's just... It's captivating, it felt like it expunged my soul. In the End, You Kill Us Both made me feel so seen I craved obliteration. It's a mortifying experience, it's skin crawlingly horrific, it's foul and festering, and a marvelous example of queer horror done right.
"I swear I could always feel it - my repentance, just waiting below the surface, biding time. I used to have really nasty dreams over it, but once I hit the Echo, y'know - they stopped for the most part. Got replaced by other things. I was convinced that the Devil would come for me in my sleep and drag me through the floor into a fiery pit, where I'd burn and burn forever."
No Longer Human by Osamu Dazai
A timeless piece of literature, and perhaps one of the most painfully accurate depictions of depression ever written. There's something so oddly comforting in the authenticity of No Longer Human, it's fucking disturbing, really. Certainly not a tale for the find of heart, No Longer Human plunges itself, and by extension, us, into the murky depths of humanity, where our greatest fears and biggest sins await. It's absolutely not a fun experience, hardly an ounce of happiness is found in this atrocious novel. It's dark, it's horrible, it's as uncomfortable as any book can be. Completely drenched in nihilism and melancholy, No Longer Human is a cathartic release for those who have stared into the abyss that is depression. It's the perfect portrait of suffering.
"I don't understand. If my neighbors manage to survive without killing themselves, without going mad, maintaining an interest in political parties, not yielding to despair, resolutely pursing the fight for existence, can their griefs really be genuine?"
4.0
"He could only consider me as the living corpse of a would be suicide, a person dead to shame, an idiot ghost. His friendship had no other purpose but to utilize me in whichever way would further his own pleasures."
Sad to an unbearable degree. Utterly tragic. A masterclass in cruelty and sorrow - No Longer Human is a strangely beautiful book, and it's brutal as shit. It's entirely without mercy, yet, not completely hopeless. It's a story that's far more fascinating than it is miserable. As bleak as the title would suggest, No Longer Human is the tale of a man who falls through the cracks in society, it's an incredibly profound and rather deep piece of autofiction, that somehow captures so perfectly the broken beyond help, dejected, despondent mindset without becoming melodramatic or theatrical. This is a super, super cynical text, it's the book equivalent of a never-ending rainstorm, it's a total void, a haunting pit of despair. It's just, so, so very sad.
No Longer Human is so brilliant, it's so moving, perhaps in ways I'm not entirely intelligent enough to explain. By all accounts, our protagonist is not someone we're meant to like, it's all too easy to write him off as a vile person, as detestable. After all, this is an examination of a life gone astray. Yet there's a skillful artistry that Dazai utilizes, to paint Yozo in a sympathetic and at times, almost flattering light. There are moments, however fleeting and brief they may be, in which Yozo becomes, well, just like the rest of us. There's going to be at least one point in this novel that all of us can relate to, that all of us, can say we've at least experienced before. What an entirely unpleasant reading experience. What a godless little novel. How joyless and wonderful.
Sad to an unbearable degree. Utterly tragic. A masterclass in cruelty and sorrow - No Longer Human is a strangely beautiful book, and it's brutal as shit. It's entirely without mercy, yet, not completely hopeless. It's a story that's far more fascinating than it is miserable. As bleak as the title would suggest, No Longer Human is the tale of a man who falls through the cracks in society, it's an incredibly profound and rather deep piece of autofiction, that somehow captures so perfectly the broken beyond help, dejected, despondent mindset without becoming melodramatic or theatrical. This is a super, super cynical text, it's the book equivalent of a never-ending rainstorm, it's a total void, a haunting pit of despair. It's just, so, so very sad.
No Longer Human is so brilliant, it's so moving, perhaps in ways I'm not entirely intelligent enough to explain. By all accounts, our protagonist is not someone we're meant to like, it's all too easy to write him off as a vile person, as detestable. After all, this is an examination of a life gone astray. Yet there's a skillful artistry that Dazai utilizes, to paint Yozo in a sympathetic and at times, almost flattering light. There are moments, however fleeting and brief they may be, in which Yozo becomes, well, just like the rest of us. There's going to be at least one point in this novel that all of us can relate to, that all of us, can say we've at least experienced before. What an entirely unpleasant reading experience. What a godless little novel. How joyless and wonderful.
"The news of my father's death eviscerated me. He was dead, that familiar, frightening presence who had never left my heart for a split second. I felt as though the vessel of my suffering had become empty, as if nothing could interest me now. I had lost even the ability to suffer."
A timeless piece of literature, and perhaps one of the most painfully accurate depictions of depression ever written. There's something so oddly comforting in the authenticity of No Longer Human, it's fucking disturbing, really. Certainly not a tale for the find of heart, No Longer Human plunges itself, and by extension, us, into the murky depths of humanity, where our greatest fears and biggest sins await. It's absolutely not a fun experience, hardly an ounce of happiness is found in this atrocious novel. It's dark, it's horrible, it's as uncomfortable as any book can be. Completely drenched in nihilism and melancholy, No Longer Human is a cathartic release for those who have stared into the abyss that is depression. It's the perfect portrait of suffering.
"I don't understand. If my neighbors manage to survive without killing themselves, without going mad, maintaining an interest in political parties, not yielding to despair, resolutely pursing the fight for existence, can their griefs really be genuine?"
After the People Lights Have Gone Off by Stephen Graham Jones
After the People Lights Have Gone off is told with a cruel efficiency, the vividity of the imagery is both striking and imposing. There's also a deeply personal feeling to most of these stories, something extremely special that shines through - it's found most in the tales that closely parallel Jones' background. The scariest thing about most of these twisted tales is that they're so rooted in reality, in the ordinary, somehow Jones manages to make the mundane absolutely terrifying, it's a magical and ethereal experience. But the true beauty of this collection is how these stories trick their readers. At first, nothing is answered, each tale ending in ambiguity, but once the mind stops reeling from the terror, the realization sinks in, the answers come to light. That right there, is the brilliance of this book.
"We sat on the headstones like they were nothing, and we blew smoke up into the inky purple sky, and, squinting like outlaws at the full moon, we held our cigarettes up to Marcus, wherever he was. Like we'd even really known him."
4.0
"No kid can outrun a werewolf, much less a riled-up pack of them. What you do is deliver the only kindness you've got left. What you do is hold each of their little heads and kiss them on the forehead, and then replace your lips with the open mouth of a gun."
Stephen Graham Jones is one of those horror authors who seems to always divide his audience, likely due to his unique and rather odd approach to storytelling. For me, personally, the way in which he abandons the rules in favor for a sharp, almost matter of fact approach, is a big win. Jones is one of the greatest authors when it comes to short horror stories, and with After the People Lights Have Gone Off, he's delivered something wildly refreshing, intensely imaginative and bleak as all hell. Jones knows fear, knows how to speak to that void within us horror readers that for whatever reason, makes us crave that sinking feeling of dread. And, its this knowledge that allows After the People Lights Have Gone Off to shatter conventional horror storytelling
This is a really incredible collection, it's utterly brilliant, packed to the brim with stories that stand out from what we're typically used to from a horror anthology. After the People Lights Have Gone Off is just, so wildly fascinating, it's entertaining and so much fun. There's some really gnarly stuff in here, these stories seem to perfectly blend their tragic and deeply sad overtones with some truly horrific imagery. At times, a lot of these stories feel as if they're bordering on parodical - there's something almost humorous about them if you can look past the brutality and bleakness. It's a truly gruesome and devastating little book, so overcome with despair, so flooded with wretchedness.
Stephen Graham Jones is one of those horror authors who seems to always divide his audience, likely due to his unique and rather odd approach to storytelling. For me, personally, the way in which he abandons the rules in favor for a sharp, almost matter of fact approach, is a big win. Jones is one of the greatest authors when it comes to short horror stories, and with After the People Lights Have Gone Off, he's delivered something wildly refreshing, intensely imaginative and bleak as all hell. Jones knows fear, knows how to speak to that void within us horror readers that for whatever reason, makes us crave that sinking feeling of dread. And, its this knowledge that allows After the People Lights Have Gone Off to shatter conventional horror storytelling
This is a really incredible collection, it's utterly brilliant, packed to the brim with stories that stand out from what we're typically used to from a horror anthology. After the People Lights Have Gone Off is just, so wildly fascinating, it's entertaining and so much fun. There's some really gnarly stuff in here, these stories seem to perfectly blend their tragic and deeply sad overtones with some truly horrific imagery. At times, a lot of these stories feel as if they're bordering on parodical - there's something almost humorous about them if you can look past the brutality and bleakness. It's a truly gruesome and devastating little book, so overcome with despair, so flooded with wretchedness.
"The front tires chirp their warning just as Sammy's leaning down for this impossible thing, this lighter, and, because he's old, instead of standing all the way to take the Corolla's impact, he only turns his face to the bright, bright headlights, his shadow thrown so far behind him. Almost as far as he's about to fly."
After the People Lights Have Gone off is told with a cruel efficiency, the vividity of the imagery is both striking and imposing. There's also a deeply personal feeling to most of these stories, something extremely special that shines through - it's found most in the tales that closely parallel Jones' background. The scariest thing about most of these twisted tales is that they're so rooted in reality, in the ordinary, somehow Jones manages to make the mundane absolutely terrifying, it's a magical and ethereal experience. But the true beauty of this collection is how these stories trick their readers. At first, nothing is answered, each tale ending in ambiguity, but once the mind stops reeling from the terror, the realization sinks in, the answers come to light. That right there, is the brilliance of this book.
"We sat on the headstones like they were nothing, and we blew smoke up into the inky purple sky, and, squinting like outlaws at the full moon, we held our cigarettes up to Marcus, wherever he was. Like we'd even really known him."
The Genocide House by Robert Kloss
There's something so completely beautiful yet, extremely harsh about the way that this book is written. It's entirely oppressive, it's utterly without mercy. It feels so wholly obsessive but, obsessive about what... I can't quite place. Is it captivity, death, control, perhaps cruelty? I couldn't quite say, but, much like the very best authors out there, Kloss writes with an elegance that imprints obsessive self-indulgence into the story. Screaming through the text is the love of the craft. The Genocide House is volatile, it's grotesque, it's a fucking hideous novel. It really is a horrible, horrendous experience, and it's one of the single greatest books of all time. So completely unique, so unlike anything anyone has ever experienced before, this is revolutionary.
"How unrelenting-the days followed by more days-It is all the same-Someday-What wind drones through streets-timber laden-A howl-devours us-Finally-I thought-nothing will remain-"
4.5
"If we remove of man his-every organ-Lungs and heart-spleen-liver-loaves of kidneys-brain-If we pull free his stomach and intestine coiled-If we render the man-organ-less-is he yet a man-If we strip him of his skin-now muscle and blood and vein-Scatter him for the dogs-If we do boil the bone until he is-loose ivory alone-Remains he yet-The man itself-"
The Genocide House is one of those rare books that eludes all sense of description. It's borderline impossible to even review, because, what actually is this book? It's... Well, it's everything - a visceral nightmare, a kaleidoscopic, ruinous, gaping maw of brutality and ceaseless violence. It's a tortured, poetic masterpiece. Fractured and fragmented vignettes offer up short but disgustingly vivid glimpses into the horrors of an entire country, its a history lesson and a work of art all in one. With The Genocide House, Robert Kloss has cemented himself as one of the most daring of authors, he's proven that he isn't afraid to just, do whatever the hell he wants. But, he's also proven that he's one of the single greatest authors of our time.
Hallucinatory. Perhaps that's the best word to describe this bestial novel. Hallucinatory and utterly distressing. The single worst acid trip of your life, foul enough to make you question your entire existence. Utterly brutal, this is some real bleak shit, The Genocide House is an intimidating read, it's powerful, visceral, it's ambitious and completely fucking bizarre. Like seemingly everything that Kloss writes, The Genocide House completely refuses to comply with conventionality or normality, it abandons every single rule of storytelling, douses them in gasoline and sets them ablaze, in doing so, this book gifts upon the world something truly magical, something visionary. It's a beautiful, blistering work of art.
The Genocide House is one of those rare books that eludes all sense of description. It's borderline impossible to even review, because, what actually is this book? It's... Well, it's everything - a visceral nightmare, a kaleidoscopic, ruinous, gaping maw of brutality and ceaseless violence. It's a tortured, poetic masterpiece. Fractured and fragmented vignettes offer up short but disgustingly vivid glimpses into the horrors of an entire country, its a history lesson and a work of art all in one. With The Genocide House, Robert Kloss has cemented himself as one of the most daring of authors, he's proven that he isn't afraid to just, do whatever the hell he wants. But, he's also proven that he's one of the single greatest authors of our time.
Hallucinatory. Perhaps that's the best word to describe this bestial novel. Hallucinatory and utterly distressing. The single worst acid trip of your life, foul enough to make you question your entire existence. Utterly brutal, this is some real bleak shit, The Genocide House is an intimidating read, it's powerful, visceral, it's ambitious and completely fucking bizarre. Like seemingly everything that Kloss writes, The Genocide House completely refuses to comply with conventionality or normality, it abandons every single rule of storytelling, douses them in gasoline and sets them ablaze, in doing so, this book gifts upon the world something truly magical, something visionary. It's a beautiful, blistering work of art.
"They step into a world beyond the knowable-flashes of light-They become-security footage-eye witness accounts-distant sounds-They were laughing-it is said-when they entered the library-An American nightmare-a broadcaster says-We won't announce the killer's names-too often history remembers-lionizes-the murderers-while the victims are forgotten-A city-shining-here the dead are housed-I have given your life meaning-the killer said-"
There's something so completely beautiful yet, extremely harsh about the way that this book is written. It's entirely oppressive, it's utterly without mercy. It feels so wholly obsessive but, obsessive about what... I can't quite place. Is it captivity, death, control, perhaps cruelty? I couldn't quite say, but, much like the very best authors out there, Kloss writes with an elegance that imprints obsessive self-indulgence into the story. Screaming through the text is the love of the craft. The Genocide House is volatile, it's grotesque, it's a fucking hideous novel. It really is a horrible, horrendous experience, and it's one of the single greatest books of all time. So completely unique, so unlike anything anyone has ever experienced before, this is revolutionary.
"How unrelenting-the days followed by more days-It is all the same-Someday-What wind drones through streets-timber laden-A howl-devours us-Finally-I thought-nothing will remain-"
Boys In the Valley by Philip Fracassi
We can't discuss Boys in the Valley without mentioning that ending. That damn fucking ending. Now that... That's how you finish a horror story. Fracassi utterly nailed it with this one. Boys in the Valley is almost burdened with a heavy sense of dread and isolation that seems to hang off every page, it gives you nowhere to hide from its intensity, from its brutality. Once you begin that first page, there's no going back. This is a story that's just, completely soaked in violence, it's utterly terrifying. While it's true that religious horror always seems to have an edge that many other subgenres don't, there's something especially captivating about this one - it's one of the few horror books that stands out from the crowd, one of the few, that lingers long after its over.
"My hair is one fire. My scalp burns and sizzles. I begin to scream as I smell myself cook - my eyeballs pop and liquify, my charred skin peels away. I collapse, and the fire eats me to the bones..."
4.0
"And the swarm swells like a mighty host behind his scalded eyes and it begins to sing - a jubilant, buzzing chorus made of a thousand shrieking voices, rising to a maddening crescendo as he burns."
Wow, just... Wow. What a brilliant, completely fantastic, utterly horrendous piece of horror fiction this is. Boys in the Valley, is, hands down, one of the scariest, most terrifying, most beautifully written coming of age tales of all time. It's everything that horror was meant to be, slick, vicious, told entirely without mercy, a brutal and emotionally taxing never-ending string of violence and misery, and so beautifully written, too. It's just, page after page of torment, death, sadness, agony, bleakness and poetic prose. What a fucking brutal, chilling and unholy little novel. Reading Boys in the Valley is a hellish, ironically, godless experience, it's a total nightmare of a novel, an apocalyptic event in print form, and damn, if this isn't amazing, I simply do not know what is.
There is never a moment in the entire novel in which the horror relents, it stands as this ceaseless, all-consuming thing, a beast that grows sharper teeth and a more intense gaze as the book continues. What opens as a distressing and harrowing account of a young boy orphaned, quickly gives way into a maddening whirlwind of occult terror. This novel is completely packed with extremely chaotic, and rather frantic action scenes that certainly do make the heart race - it's an exciting book, an obliterating, completely joyless, horrible to look at from every angle thrill ride. Boys in the Valley truly is one hell of a read, a novel that proves that coming of age horror, is far from played out.
Wow, just... Wow. What a brilliant, completely fantastic, utterly horrendous piece of horror fiction this is. Boys in the Valley, is, hands down, one of the scariest, most terrifying, most beautifully written coming of age tales of all time. It's everything that horror was meant to be, slick, vicious, told entirely without mercy, a brutal and emotionally taxing never-ending string of violence and misery, and so beautifully written, too. It's just, page after page of torment, death, sadness, agony, bleakness and poetic prose. What a fucking brutal, chilling and unholy little novel. Reading Boys in the Valley is a hellish, ironically, godless experience, it's a total nightmare of a novel, an apocalyptic event in print form, and damn, if this isn't amazing, I simply do not know what is.
There is never a moment in the entire novel in which the horror relents, it stands as this ceaseless, all-consuming thing, a beast that grows sharper teeth and a more intense gaze as the book continues. What opens as a distressing and harrowing account of a young boy orphaned, quickly gives way into a maddening whirlwind of occult terror. This novel is completely packed with extremely chaotic, and rather frantic action scenes that certainly do make the heart race - it's an exciting book, an obliterating, completely joyless, horrible to look at from every angle thrill ride. Boys in the Valley truly is one hell of a read, a novel that proves that coming of age horror, is far from played out.
"There's a heavy, painful pressure on his arms, as if someone is driving their knees into his wrists. He can't move. His throat is on fire. He feels his clothes being ripped from his body. The air clings to him like ice. Something sharp pierces his skin... He wants to beg. Wants to tell them he's sorry, to ask them not to tease him any further, to please stop, to stop and leave him alone. I won't tell. I promise I won't tell. Just please stop now please please... But he can't speak, so he can't beg. And he can't cry out. And they don't stop."
We can't discuss Boys in the Valley without mentioning that ending. That damn fucking ending. Now that... That's how you finish a horror story. Fracassi utterly nailed it with this one. Boys in the Valley is almost burdened with a heavy sense of dread and isolation that seems to hang off every page, it gives you nowhere to hide from its intensity, from its brutality. Once you begin that first page, there's no going back. This is a story that's just, completely soaked in violence, it's utterly terrifying. While it's true that religious horror always seems to have an edge that many other subgenres don't, there's something especially captivating about this one - it's one of the few horror books that stands out from the crowd, one of the few, that lingers long after its over.
"My hair is one fire. My scalp burns and sizzles. I begin to scream as I smell myself cook - my eyeballs pop and liquify, my charred skin peels away. I collapse, and the fire eats me to the bones..."
McGlue by Ottessa Moshfegh
McGlue is a really, truly sickening little novel, it's absolutely gross, perhaps to even a degree that becomes gratuitous, though this never feels unintentional. It's a never-ending barrage of slurs, insults, grime, violence, homophobia, misogyny, the entire book is one big cycle of immorality. All of this, however, is central to the story of McGlue, his ferocious level of self-hatred and pity would simply be impossible without this toxicity. There really is something wonderful here, something that's completely without mercy and utterly lacking in joy. It's a brilliant and impressive novel, what savage and ruthless beauty. This is a novel of horrible characters, it's an exploration of self-annihilation, much like a multi-car wreck, it's impossible to look away from the terror.
"I cannot sleep without having already forgotten my name, my face, my life. If I were to sit still or lie down in a room with some memory of myself - the time I have left to live out, that nasty sentence, that hell - I would go mad."
4.0
"I have nothing to say. I look at the old man and widen my eyes, sort of. I mean to tell him to let me rot and die, just bring my whiskey, wine, anything. He reads my expression like I'm asking to be comforted."
Otessa Moshfegh is an insanely interesting and utterly fearless writer, seemingly never once blinking at creating something so far removed from conventional storytelling. This book, it just, feels terrible, it feels horrible, its like being offered a glimpse into one of the most depraved and depressing of lives. What a sickening little novella, it's a ruinous and bestial thing. With McGlue, Moshfegh lays to rest our previous idea of disturbing literature, in fact, she utterly eviscerates it, spinning "disturbing" into a festering wound oozing rot and decay. McGlue is a truly vile novel, a deep, dank pit of despair. It's akin to being forcefully submerged into a nightmare that you know you'll never wake from. It's a book that feels like being repeatedly punched in the face.
There's really no way of adequately describing this novella. McGlue is... Well, it's everything that could have been desired from a novel by Moshfegh. It is, distinctly, something that only Moshfegh could achieve. McGlue is handled in an utterly stylish manner, the marvelous prose drags readers straight into hell right alongside the titular McGlue. Thrust down into that stinking cot, forced to view the contents of a booze soaked brain, thrown without care into a time of wickedness and sin, we, as readers, are offered no respite from the cruelty of this story. But with this cruelty, comes a beauty unrivalled. McGlue is gritty, grimy, it's caked in filth and its utterly grim.
Otessa Moshfegh is an insanely interesting and utterly fearless writer, seemingly never once blinking at creating something so far removed from conventional storytelling. This book, it just, feels terrible, it feels horrible, its like being offered a glimpse into one of the most depraved and depressing of lives. What a sickening little novella, it's a ruinous and bestial thing. With McGlue, Moshfegh lays to rest our previous idea of disturbing literature, in fact, she utterly eviscerates it, spinning "disturbing" into a festering wound oozing rot and decay. McGlue is a truly vile novel, a deep, dank pit of despair. It's akin to being forcefully submerged into a nightmare that you know you'll never wake from. It's a book that feels like being repeatedly punched in the face.
There's really no way of adequately describing this novella. McGlue is... Well, it's everything that could have been desired from a novel by Moshfegh. It is, distinctly, something that only Moshfegh could achieve. McGlue is handled in an utterly stylish manner, the marvelous prose drags readers straight into hell right alongside the titular McGlue. Thrust down into that stinking cot, forced to view the contents of a booze soaked brain, thrown without care into a time of wickedness and sin, we, as readers, are offered no respite from the cruelty of this story. But with this cruelty, comes a beauty unrivalled. McGlue is gritty, grimy, it's caked in filth and its utterly grim.
"And we kiss then and there, and maybe I die then first of all. Right away, though, instead of lips a fist soars into my mouth, for which I am grateful. Johnson says it again, "go ahead," and I smear my bloody mouth on his. Shaking under the sun and clouds, clearheaded and shaded in sweat and furious, I look down at his face, the gleaming black sunlit hair, hear him say my name once more, and so I kneel to kiss him. I raise the knife again."
McGlue is a really, truly sickening little novel, it's absolutely gross, perhaps to even a degree that becomes gratuitous, though this never feels unintentional. It's a never-ending barrage of slurs, insults, grime, violence, homophobia, misogyny, the entire book is one big cycle of immorality. All of this, however, is central to the story of McGlue, his ferocious level of self-hatred and pity would simply be impossible without this toxicity. There really is something wonderful here, something that's completely without mercy and utterly lacking in joy. It's a brilliant and impressive novel, what savage and ruthless beauty. This is a novel of horrible characters, it's an exploration of self-annihilation, much like a multi-car wreck, it's impossible to look away from the terror.
"I cannot sleep without having already forgotten my name, my face, my life. If I were to sit still or lie down in a room with some memory of myself - the time I have left to live out, that nasty sentence, that hell - I would go mad."
Fragile Animals by Genevieve Jagger
3.0
RTC when I'm not so sick but idk if there's much to really say about this one. Moses is a good name for a sexy vampire man tho.
The Woods All Black by Lee Mandelo
3.5
"The road bent around the swollen foot of a hill, and on all sides rose the staggering height and heft of the Appalachians. Their immensity made the town nestled below feel paradoxically claustrophobic, as if always seconds away from being crushed."
Religious trauma as horror is one of my very favorite sub-genres, as is, small town horror. If we're going to be hyper specific, however, small town Appalachian horror is what I gravitate towards the most. The Woods All Black builds a perfect blend of the two, it's intense, euphoric, dystopic, a complete kaleidoscopic nightmare of a novella. Despite it's rather slim size, this novella still packs a punch, delivering a highly impactful and wildly enjoyable storyline. It's just dripping in this utterly gorgeous gothic decadence, and there's a real horrific, horrendous atmosphere coating the entire thing. The Woods All Black is... Strange. It's weird, and wonderful and told in that super beautiful, signature Lee Mandelo style, it could have perhaps benefitted from being a touch longer, however.
Gnarly, twisted, dark and gruesome, The Woods All Black is one of those rare novels thats specifically for the unhinged monster-fuckers out there. This is a revenge flick with a real bite, it's a complete snarling beast of a novella, all sharp angles, drool oozing fangs and ruinous, devastating energy. Despite feeling like this is aimed at a highly specific demographic, there's... Actually, quite a lot to enjoy here, a cruel community tucked away in the woods, a mysterious monster, a highly interesting trans protagonist, there's just never a boring moment. This is one of those fast-paced little stories that can be easily devoured in a single sitting, but, it will leave you wishing there was more of it to consume.
"Outside he found himself stood in the middle of the Spar. The creek bed glittered under an orange harvest moon, stones blossoming from the earth like fairy circles. Trees rustled in chorus as if possessed by the desire to yank their roots free and go walking."
Religious trauma as horror is one of my very favorite sub-genres, as is, small town horror. If we're going to be hyper specific, however, small town Appalachian horror is what I gravitate towards the most. The Woods All Black builds a perfect blend of the two, it's intense, euphoric, dystopic, a complete kaleidoscopic nightmare of a novella. Despite it's rather slim size, this novella still packs a punch, delivering a highly impactful and wildly enjoyable storyline. It's just dripping in this utterly gorgeous gothic decadence, and there's a real horrific, horrendous atmosphere coating the entire thing. The Woods All Black is... Strange. It's weird, and wonderful and told in that super beautiful, signature Lee Mandelo style, it could have perhaps benefitted from being a touch longer, however.
Gnarly, twisted, dark and gruesome, The Woods All Black is one of those rare novels thats specifically for the unhinged monster-fuckers out there. This is a revenge flick with a real bite, it's a complete snarling beast of a novella, all sharp angles, drool oozing fangs and ruinous, devastating energy. Despite feeling like this is aimed at a highly specific demographic, there's... Actually, quite a lot to enjoy here, a cruel community tucked away in the woods, a mysterious monster, a highly interesting trans protagonist, there's just never a boring moment. This is one of those fast-paced little stories that can be easily devoured in a single sitting, but, it will leave you wishing there was more of it to consume.
"Outside he found himself stood in the middle of the Spar. The creek bed glittered under an orange harvest moon, stones blossoming from the earth like fairy circles. Trees rustled in chorus as if possessed by the desire to yank their roots free and go walking."