When I first read the names of the characters, I remembered Vince and Jules from Pulp Fiction.
They are nothing alike. Except for the bickering. And being capable of doing anything. No scruples or regrets. And the loyalty. They complement each other.
Vincent is a minor, he has not read a whole book in his life, he watches TV till his brain explodes. Frank is much older, he has not seen a film in his life, and reads the same book again and again till the words leak out of his ears.
Frank is naïve. Vincent is just the opposite.
Frank kills for a living. Vincent has just killed to save his life.
Vincent talks too much. Frank is believed to be mute.
They are so different it’s a wonder to find something in common. They share the fascination for a life leaving a person’s eyes.
And they also share the feeling they can’t live without each other.
Everything about them can be described with superlatives and still form a single soul.
This book is a bit perverse. A bit pervert. A bit crazy. A bit depraved. A bit sick. A bit degenerate. A bit immoral. A bit decadent. A bit disturbing. Ok, now forget about the “bits”.
I totally loved this book. The writing is superb. It wraps Vincent’s thoughts and feelings in a dense and delicious flavor. I must say, in spite of the style being that dark and that macabre (or maybe just because of it), it was hot as hell. I don’t want to think about what that says about me as a person.
I love psychos. It’s not that just because a MC is nuts I will automatically love the novel. But it’s demonstrated by my read shelf that I end up enjoying those books immensely. Maybe I have such good luck. Maybe only brave authors dare to write about them. The thing is, reading about madmen is like a drug for me: once I taste it, I can’t quit. But it has to be good stuff.
This book is depraved as hell. And convincing, too. The MC are assassins and they are not sorry for killing people. In fact, they experience something as magnificent as an orgasm at the prospect of murdering someone. The sex is intense, too. It’s not described profusely, but now and then, while narrating, Vincent unexpectedly inserts one scene that completely disarms me and short-circuits my neurons.
The form is beautiful and poetic in a way that each word is well selected to almost ensemble a song. It sounds like music to my ears. And the content is shocking and amazing, making it all mesmerizing and fascinating.
I love black humor, and this book has it in spades. It was fun and high quality.
I’m aware the ending was disappointing for some readers, that it even spoiled the whole book. Let’s face it, it’s a bit anticlimatic, but I don’t believe it’s that bad. What I complain about is the epilogue. It’s cheesy and sappy. It reminded me of the Harry Potter’s end. And that’s not a compliment.
A compelling reading. I absolutely loved it. But based on the plot and reviews of the second book, I’m not sure I’ll read it. I’m not really interested in seeing the sequel of the epilogue, how they manage to have an “ordinary” life amongst “ordinary” people after their lives being that unsetting. It’s unfair. It’s like saying “Yeah, they were bad, but now they are redeeming themselves acting good.” No, I don’t want them to be forgiven, or justified. They are bad and bad they will be. For me, at least.