This was singularly one of the hardest books to finish, and there was a morbid fascination which egged me on to the end, despite strongest instincts to give up several, several times. I have found that books which use the unreliable narrator trope are the ones I find the hardest to stomach. In this book, there isn’t much to indicate that the narrator is unreliable until we come to the end, which makes it nigh intolerable.
There are three types of chapters in this book:
All three types of chapters are interleaved throughout the book. Just when one thinks this is getting beyond tedious, the next type of chapter shows up, and the cycle repeats. Throughout the book, he repeatedly demonstrates an encyclopaedic ability to identify designer items worn, or used, by all the men and women he encounters.
Some of the murder chapters go far beyond the pale, especially when he talks about squshing eyeballs, chewing intestines and microwaving heads. Often I would read while eating; big mistake.
I would like to believe that the book is intended as a satire on yuppie culture, and the capitalistic acquisition of wealth and possessions which serve no purpose beyond bragging rights. The book slowly builds up to a climax, mirroring Patrick’s detiorating mental state, I believe.
I would not recommend this book, though. Both the tedium and the gruesomeness are things we can do without in life. I don’t believe I have the enthusiasm to watch the movie adaptation starring Christian Bale.