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A review by screamdogreads
We Need to Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver
4.5
"Kevin honked, that hard, joyless laugh forced through his nose. And said something like, Are you kidding? They fucking worship me, Mumsey. There's not a juve in this joint who hasn't taken out fifty dickheads in his peer group before breakfast - in his head. I'm the only one with the stones to do it in real life."
There's something so very sublime and exceptional about We Need to Talk About Kevin. It's one of those novels that starts almost painfully slow, in an entirely unhurried and sedated pace, but, that eventually moves towards a cosmic explosion of an ending. Told entirely as rather pretentious letters from Kevin's mother, it's a shining example of another novel that dares to abandon conventionality, there's no typical structure here, in fact it's a series of ramblings that form a sickening and compelling narrative. Let me be clear, this is a deeply uncomfortable book. It's unsettling and horrific, akin to witnessing a multiple car collision at high speeds, you can't look away, you mustn't even if it's entirely too disturbing to envision.
We Need to Talk About Kevin is not, in any way, an enjoyable experience - it's twisted and brutal and fucking agonizing to sit through, yet it's one of the most enrapturing novels ever written, often times, the best works of literature are the most tortuous. It's so profoundly affecting and unique, we all know already what has happened, we have all the answers and we know where the story must take us, yet... It's so damn surprising. Lionel Shriver has a stunning command of language, there are ugly, hideous things written here yet she manages to capture such beauty in her words. Perhaps more frightening than even a horror novel, We Need to Talk About Kevin is so much more than another piece of fiction. This is art in print form, this, I believe, is what literature is all about.
There's something so very sublime and exceptional about We Need to Talk About Kevin. It's one of those novels that starts almost painfully slow, in an entirely unhurried and sedated pace, but, that eventually moves towards a cosmic explosion of an ending. Told entirely as rather pretentious letters from Kevin's mother, it's a shining example of another novel that dares to abandon conventionality, there's no typical structure here, in fact it's a series of ramblings that form a sickening and compelling narrative. Let me be clear, this is a deeply uncomfortable book. It's unsettling and horrific, akin to witnessing a multiple car collision at high speeds, you can't look away, you mustn't even if it's entirely too disturbing to envision.
We Need to Talk About Kevin is not, in any way, an enjoyable experience - it's twisted and brutal and fucking agonizing to sit through, yet it's one of the most enrapturing novels ever written, often times, the best works of literature are the most tortuous. It's so profoundly affecting and unique, we all know already what has happened, we have all the answers and we know where the story must take us, yet... It's so damn surprising. Lionel Shriver has a stunning command of language, there are ugly, hideous things written here yet she manages to capture such beauty in her words. Perhaps more frightening than even a horror novel, We Need to Talk About Kevin is so much more than another piece of fiction. This is art in print form, this, I believe, is what literature is all about.
"Once I was no longer fussing with my coat, he said, you may be fooling the neighbors and the guards and Jesus and your gaga mother with these goody-goody visits of yours, but you're not fooling me. Keep it up if you want a gold star. But don't be dragging your ass back here on my account. Then he added, because I hate you."
The entirety of this novel feels like ripping the teeth from your mouth, it's just such a harrowing thing. Every character is entirely detestable, no one here is any good, at all, yet they're so perfectly written, somehow sympathetic and grotesque. Despite the often overexaggerated, over articulate writing, it's a very readable novel, at once both elegant and disgusting. It's just such a devastating thing, explaining how one feels about this novel without resorting to incoherent screaming seems next to impossible, what a repulsive, ugly thing this book is. It's simply overkill, but in the best possible way.
"As for saving yourself, maybe it just wasn't in you. Stark in the glare of the floods, sharpened by the shadow cast by the shaft in your neck, the expression on your face - it was just so disappointed."