Friday, July 30, 2010

You can always count on a murderer for fancy prose style

You know a writer is good when he can make the issue of pedophelia appear subtle and sensual. Not that it is at all, the thought of it makes me extremely nauseous. But having read this book, and sat through one of Ruby's social work lectures, I no longer have to ask the question of why it happens.
Sometimes we get so caught up in the good kinds of love, we forget to watch out for the bad kinds.


He wanted to collect us like dolls, to keep us eternally young and perfect and safe from the ravages of our potential real lives, of which he could not otherwise be a part; he thought he was protecting us, yet he did not realise that he was ravaging us of our femininity, our humanity; he magnified our innocence, with projection and clothing, and then harvested it. Perhaps that was his plan all along, to surgically remove the splintered pieces of our souls, one by one, so that we would become hollow as porcelain and thus somehow harness the power of eternal youth. I realised then that it could only be a physical obsession he entertained with me, and with Celia; love could not be induced nor supplicated by hollow beings such as ourselves, flitting between consciousness and unconsciousness, fury and shame, poison and antidote as butterflies do from rose to rose. And we would not stay Nymphettes forever. What, pray tell, would he do with us then?

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