Zombie

So incredibly boring.

It felt as if time stood still while reading this. If it hadn’t only been 181 pages, I would’ve DNF’d (Did Not Finish) without a second thought.

This book did absolutely nothing for me. It failed to engage my interest, failed to make me care about the story or the characters.

Reading from Quentin’s point of view (pov) was a torture. It made me want to bash my head into a wall. His perspective was so uninteresting, so mundane, that it was a struggle to get through each page.

I had high hopes for this book, but it completely let me down. It was a waste of my time and I would not recommend it to anyone.

Perhaps others may find something redeeming in it, but for me, it was just a dull and forgettable read.

I simply couldn't stomach it anymore. Page after page was filled with so much evil and horror. It was just too severe, too disgusting, and way too realistic. I had to quit at page 57.

This book is essentially a detailed diary or first-person narrative of a serial killer who is attempting to create sex zombies. His father is a professor, and he is a college student. He always agrees with people but never makes eye contact. He even has a "I break for animals" bumper sticker, yet he is a sexual psychopath. One of his victims is a mentally handicapped 12-year-old. His personal account of what he does is littered with entries like this:

“[He] convulsed like a madman when I pushed the ice pick at the angle in the diagram through the ‘bony orbit’ above the eyeball … & screamed through the sponge I’d shoved & tied in his mouth, actually snapping the baling wire securing his ankles, but he did not regain consciousness, dying in twelve minutes while I ran cold water on his face to wash away the blood & revive him” (pp. 55-56).

The vivid and disturbing descriptions in this book are truly sickening and make it almost impossible to continue reading. It's a chilling look into the mind of a deranged individual, and I'm glad I had the sense to stop when I did.

Ever wonder what goes through the mind of a sexual psychopath like Jeffrey Dahmer?

Well, Joyce Carol Oates’s Zombie will show you – in a grisly, uncompromising and at times revolting fashion.

The book’s protagonist is a 31-year-old Dahmer-like character named Quentin P. He lives in the Midwest and is currently on probation for a sex crime he committed earlier. In between visits to his probation officer, psychiatrist and therapy group, he manages to find more victims and do terrible, terrible things to them.

He comes from a nice, seemingly normal family. But he’s learned how to convince everyone he’s doing fine. He is attending community college and working as a caretaker at a building his grandmother owns.

Between his banal daily activities, he recounts his killings in an almost offhand fashion, illustrating his stories with drawings. He’s savvy enough to know that if he chooses his victims among hitchhikers or men of colour, there won’t be a lot of people looking for them if they go missing – a horrific thought. But then he becomes obsessed with an attractive, upper-middle-class white kid. And the final third of the book consists of Quentin stalking him and figuring out a way to capture him to make him his personal zombie.

Oh yeah, the title. It’s gross. Quentin wants to use an icepick to basically give his victims lobotomies so he can keep them alive as his sexual slaves.

I told you this was disturbing.

This is the third Oates novel I’ve read, and I’ve got to admit she doesn’t hold back. She understands Quentin’s dissociative identity, all his ticks, urges, rationalizations, setbacks and victories. She doesn’t condone who or what he is, but she doesn’t pass judgement, either. She provides enough clues to his history and behaviour to let us understand him in a way that he doesn’t himself.

In fact, as Quentin plans his big capture, Oates actually generates sympathy for him. You’re almost rooting for him to succeed.

Which is some kind of sick literary miracle.

This book felt as if a malevolent entity had emerged directly from the depths of hell!

I was completely unaware that I had willingly elected to delve into the mind of a psychotic serial killer in such an up-close and personal manner.

I have no clue how Joyce Carol Oates accomplished this feat, but she did so in the most persuasive way, and it truly frightened me to the core.

You may wonder how Joyce Carol Oates could possibly depict the terrifying deeds of such a genuinely terrifying sexual psychopath in such an intimate (seemingly rational) fashion, and this definitely includes the disconcerting little illustrations of tools used that were interspersed throughout the text.

I truly don't know whether to admire the book or be disturbed by her writing it because it is the scariest novel I have ever read!

Is that a compliment? I can't say for sure.

But, yes, it demonstrates that Joyce Carol Oates is a one-of-a-kind author, and I have no choice but to admire her courage in writing this book.

If you're in search of a book centered around Romero style living dead, you should look elsewhere. This isn't that kind of book. Nor is it about a particular Cranberries song that, once mentioned, will be stuck firmly in your heeeeeeeeaaad… in your heeeeeeeeaaad…

No, this is a book about Jeffrey Dahmer, yet not the real Jeffrey Dahmer. The fictionalized version of him is named Quentin… I'm sorry Q___ P___ no, sorry, back to Quentin. I apologize. The author makes the strange choice to have him use only his initials for a while (especially when our first-person narrator refers to himself in the third person), but then has everyone simply call him Quentin. It's one of many small, annoying details that contribute to the overall awfulness of this book.

Yes, let's be clear, this is easily my least favorite book of the year. In fact, it probably makes my list of least favorite novels of all time. I continued reading it after a while out of morbid curiosity (and because it was short with large print). "Will it get better?" I wondered. After all, I usually only hear positive things about the author. Surely she has a trick up her sleeve and… nope, it's over.

I typically appreciate it when authors want to be a bit experimental. It should be encouraged. So I hate to be "that guy," but I guess I have to be this time. If your experiment is to write in purposely atrocious writing, perhaps it's best not to attempt it. This is how the book is written:

& I decided to write this REVIEW because I LIKE it when I read books & REVIEWS are pretty much what I do & it seemed like a GOOD idea & I reviewed & T___ R___ REVIEWED & then someone commented & I said & they said & I said & they said & I LIKED that they said THAT.

Yes, long run-on sentences, frequent use of "&," sections that are just "I said & then he said & I said" without the dialogue and words capitalized to show the narrator's thought process, but often seeming to be randomly selected words for no good reason. Add in a couple of references to the character being aroused (frequently… very, very frequently) and that's the book in a nutshell.

Yeah, he kills a person or two and tries to create a zombie (in this case, that means a lobotomized sex slave for those of you wondering about the title), but really, it's just one poorly written run-on sentence after another. Yes, I know Oates writes better than this. Yes, I know it was an experiment. Frankly, it was a failed one. 1/5 stars and recommended to no one.

A Meditation on Psychopathy

Oates makes us aware that there are individuals who seem to lack an essential part of what makes us human. They are like incomplete beings, missing some crucial 'wetware' that prevents them from fitting in with others. This implies a scale of humanness, where some are more fully human than others. This is the essence of Oates's exploration into the mind of a fictional psychopath.

Psychopathy is a difficult concept for any society to handle. These people are not insane but rather defective in some fundamental way. The question then arises: how can we identify them? By what standards can we determine that they are sub-human?

Terrorists, school shooters, racist skinheads, and violent political activists are often technically sane, yet something is amiss. There may be genetic or environmental factors that contribute to their behavior, but their inability to be swayed by reason suggests that they cannot be considered full members of human society.

However, it's not clear what exactly constitutes human reason. Nevertheless, it must begin with the idea that argument, or language, is the means by which we conduct and, hopefully, resolve disputes. Therefore, proficiency in the use of language is a characteristic of those who are more human.

But how do we measure this proficiency? Is it the narrow skill of a scientist explaining complex ideas to like-minded colleagues? Or the rhetorical skill of a lawyer appealing to a jury's emotions? Or perhaps the manipulative and dishonest skill of a Trump at one of his populist rallies? All of these are highly skilled in their own ways.

In fact, some people are so adept at using language that they can actually incite the very inhuman behavior that language should help us avoid. Their skill can be used to promote revolution, which is often violent, by turning language against itself. Language doesn't exist in a vacuum; it is contained and expressed within institutions such as courts, professions, and political parties, which have specific rules for its use. Skill in navigating these rules is often more important than the skill of language itself.

These institutions define the language that can be used and the reasons that are acceptable in an argument. The more serious the reasons that are excluded as invalid, the greater the likelihood of revolution. The expansion of the range of valid reasons in institutional argumentation is a significant achievement of liberal democracy. Anyone who tries to limit the reasons available for institutionalized argument, which is equivalent to restricting democratic participation, can be considered a psychopath.

The psychopath doesn't argue with reasons; he simply states his opinions as they come to him, especially when it comes to institutions involving language. Giving reasons is precisely what the psychopath doesn't do. He has no reasons, only urges. He doesn't want to expand the range of acceptable reasons in a debate. Instead, he despises all reasons in deference to his urges.

The psychopath is terrifying precisely because he has no rational basis for his actions. His only goal is to satisfy the itch that drives him. He is not a revolutionary but a nihilist who has no qualms about destroying all institutions of language and, with them, the civilization they represent. "My whole body is a numb tongue," says Quentin, Oates's psychopath. His every word is a destructive distortion of language.

These are the thoughts that consume me as I anticipate the state visit of the psychopath, Donald Trump, to this beautiful and peaceful land. It seems to me that Oates understood this man without ever having met him - a creature of the slime who is less than human.

The book arrived in good condition. A large part of the story held me captive, making me eager to keep reading. However, that ending completely spoiled everything. If the book had ended several pages earlier...

The narration, although it took me a while to get used to, I absolutely loved. It is very realistic. Oates created an excellent psychotic protagonist in this novel, whom you hate with all your might throughout the entire story.

It is a very intense book considering the small number of pages it has. It manages to produce a great deal of tension, hatred, and repulsion in you. But, in my opinion, well-developed psychopaths in literature always cause that type of sensation.

I would recommend it to people with a tolerant stomach since the descriptions of both rapes and tortures are very graphic. Also to anyone who is curious since I finished reading it for this very reason.

2.5 / 5 stars.

I’m only giving it two stars for the concept.

The writing failed to engage me. It lacked the finesse and artistry that would have made it a truly enjoyable read.

Moreover, the plot was not particularly great. It didn’t have the kind of twists and turns that would keep me on the edge of my seat or the depth to make me think deeply.

To top it off, the ending was rather poor. It felt rushed and didn’t provide a satisfying conclusion to the story.

This seems like the kind of book you read just because you’ve heard how messed up it is (which is why I read it). It’s one of those books that might have some initial curiosity value due to its reputation, but in the end, it doesn’t deliver on the promise.

I’m left feeling disappointed and wondering if there was more that could have been done to make this a better book.

Perhaps with a stronger writing style, a more engaging plot, and a more satisfying ending, it could have been a four or five-star read. But as it stands, two stars is all I can give it.