A peado priest falls in love with a little girl.
No, I am joking. He doesn’t. He only ‘falls in love’ with her when she develops a pair of … I can’t think of a dignified name for those things.
No that is too vulgar. Anyway that really isn’t the entirety of the story, but I think it caused sensation when it was published because that is what stood out the most.
That isn’t what this book was about. I read the last sentence today.
And we still do it. Still we do it.
Put thorns in our breasts, that’s what.
This book touched me beyond my brain cells. It touched somewhere deep inside my cranium, some would call it a soul. It prodded it and then it simpered like an evil waif, and vanished, leaving me looking down at a new hole. A bit surprised, actually. I didn’t think it would affect me this way.
Somebody once told me that once you have read or seen something, it is a thought in your brain. It belongs to you. You cannot un-think it.
When a writer writes so well that you feel like you are one with the characters, feeling things they feel, even though you have never felt these things… you have bent to the will of the pen. You have never felt those things? Oh, but you have. You’ve felt an echo of them. And now, you know.
I didn’t like all of the characters, but I liked them immensely.
This book didn’t sear me because of its plot, or its characters. Its plot was devastating, to be sure, and its characters deeply twisted and vastly, enormously human. But this book had a soul of its own. It is life, itself.
Sure, it was life from the perspective of one individual brain, but it seethed into being, it spluttered, it gasped, it breathed.
I really wish I didn’t read it, because I can’t un-think it.
But I am glad I did.