My rating: 1 of 5 stars
Smug, self-satisfied, pretentious twaddle from a cutting-edge writer fearlessly treading unspoiled ground covered twenty years previously by the likes of Robert Bloch and Joyce Carol Oates. Between the high-handed purple prose; long winding passages saying nothing really but jammed in for the sole purpose of demonstrating the breadth of Self’s vocabulary; and a plot so minor it might have filled a Richard Matheson short story on a bad day, this is a Jericho’s trumpet of nothingness. Tedious and frustrating in equal measure, even the gleeful shock value of Self’s “Oh, I’m so naughty” moments come across as little more than a small boy jumping in puddles to upset his parents. Tiresome. DNF.