Book of Revelation: A Novel [NOOK Book]


In an edgy psychological thriller that is as mesmerizing as it is profound, Rupert Thomson fearlessly delves into the darkest realm of the human spirit to reveal the sinister connection between sexuality and power.

Stepping out of his Amsterdam studio one April afternoon to buy cigarettes for his girlfriend, a dashing 29-year old Englishman reflects on their wonderful seven-year relationship, and his stellar career as an internationally ...
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Book of Revelation: A Novel

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In an edgy psychological thriller that is as mesmerizing as it is profound, Rupert Thomson fearlessly delves into the darkest realm of the human spirit to reveal the sinister connection between sexuality and power.

Stepping out of his Amsterdam studio one April afternoon to buy cigarettes for his girlfriend, a dashing 29-year old Englishman reflects on their wonderful seven-year relationship, and his stellar career as an internationally acclaimed dancer and choreographer. But the nameless protagonist's destiny takes an unthinkably horrifying turn when a trio of mysterious cloaked and hooded women kidnap him, chain him to the floor of a stark white room to keep as their sexual prisoner, and subjected him to eighteen days of humiliation, mutilation, and rape. Then, after a bizarrely public performance, he is released, only to be held captive in the purgatory of his own guilt and torment: The realization that no one will believe his strange story. Coolly revelatory, meticulously crafted, The Book of Revelation is Rupert Thomson at his imaginative best.

From the Trade Paperback edition.
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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
Thomson, a brilliant Londoner, certainly never writes the same book twice. Air and Fire was a wonderfully ambient tropical adventure, Soft a devastating contemporary London thriller. Revelation which resembles his previous novel, The Insult, more than either of these, ponders the consequences of an extreme episode in the life of an attractive (and unnamed) English ballet dancer and choreographer working in Amsterdam. One day, on a brief sortie to buy cigarettes for his lovely girlfriend, he is abducted by three mysterious masked women and held for nearly three weeks as a chained sexual slave in a bright room somewhere in the city. He is tattooed, violated, painfully tethered by his penis. He fights to preserve his equilibrium, gives the women imaginary names, tries to memorize their bodies. Then, as suddenly and unexpectedly as he was taken, he is released and must resume his existence. But his life has been twisted out of joint--his girlfriend doesn't believe his story; he finds he cannot work and becomes obsessed with searching for the women. Aided by a sudden legacy, he travels the world for several years, a lonely and disaffected soul in search of an anchor. Finally, back in Amsterdam, thinking he has discovered one of his captors, he assaults a girl in a club and is arrested. All this is conveyed in Thomson's usual fluent and riveting style, and the effect is mesmerizing. It is also affectless, however, for once the gripping sex-slavery episode is over, the book seems like a long anticlimax, which is concluded in a peculiarly unsatisfying way. Thomson can never be dull, and the notion of a man trying to recover from the consequences of rape is an intriguing one. Despite this narrative's glittering surface, however, it is not one of his sharper efforts. (Feb.) Copyright 1999 Cahners Business Information.
Library Journal
Have you heard the one about the guy who stepped out to get a pack of cigarettes only to show up 18 days--or maybe 20 years--later as if nothing had happened? In Thomson's (Soft!) version, a male dancer/ choreographer goes out one fine Amsterdam morning to buy a pack of cigarettes for his girlfriend; on the way, he is drugged and abducted by a trio of unknown women, who become his caretakers/captors. They chain him in a stark white room and lead him through a series of increasingly bizarre sexual escapades. After 18 days, he is released, but things don't get any easier. He splits up with his girlfriend, drops out of the dance world, gets a job as a bartender, and somehow just can't feel at ease. With its Amsterdam setting, the painterly still-life element is relevant and effective, but before it's all over many readers are apt to feel that the "still" takes precedence over the "life." For libraries where literary fiction is in demand.--Bob Lunn, Kansas City P.L., MO Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.\
The Book of Revelation (whose mock-biblical title is itself a satirical master stroke) delves uncompromisingly and with lucidity into the mysteries of power and sexuality. His book subverts the standard sexual classifications, forcing the reader to experience his or her own fantastical, confused and forbidden stirrings...As these themes intertwine, Mr. Thomson's story becomes almost unbearably suspenseful.
The New York Times
Anthony Bourdain
...a premise made terrifyingly real by a hugely talented writer... It's an effective and disturbing performance, and Thomson's sentences are as clean, cool and unsparing as a surgeon's blade.
The New York Times Book Review
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780375727795
  • Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 7/3/2001
  • Series: Vintage International
  • Sold by: Random House
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 272
  • Sales rank: 715,635
  • File size: 252 KB

Meet the Author

Rupert Thomson is the author of five previous novels -- of which Soft!, The Insult, Air & Fire, and The Five Gates of Hell are available in Vintage paperback. He lives in London.

From the Trade Paperback edition.
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Read an Excerpt


I can see it all so clearly, even now. The studio canteen was empty, and I was sitting in the corner, by the window. Sunlight angled across the table, dividing the smooth, blond wood into two equal halves, one bright, one dark; I remember thinking that it looked heraldic, like a shield. An ashtray stood in front of me, the sun's rays shattering against its chunky glass. Beside it, someone's coffee cup, still half full but long since cold. It was an ordinary moment in an ordinary day -- a break between rehearsals. . . .

I had just opened my notebook and was about to put pen to paper when I heard footsteps to my right, a dancer's footsteps, light but purposeful. I looked up to see Brigitte, my girlfriend, walking towards me in her dark-green leotard and her laddered tights, her hair tied back with a piece of mauve velvet. She was frowning. She had run out of cigarettes, she told me, and there were none in the machine. Would I go out and buy her some more?

I stared at her. "I thought I bought you a packet yesterday."

"I finished them," she said.

"You've smoked twenty cigarettes since yesterday?"

Brigitte just looked at me.

"You'll get cancer," I told her.

"I don't care," she said.

This was an argument we had had before, of course, and I soon relented. In the end, I was pleased to be doing something for her. It's a quality I often see in myself when I look back, that eagerness to please. I had wanted to make her happy from the first moment I saw her. I would always remember the morning when she walked into the studio, fresh from the Jeune Ballet de France, and how she stood by the piano, pinning up her crunchy, chestnut-coloured hair, and I would always remember making love to her a few days later, and the expression on her face as she knelt above me, a curious mixture of arrogance and ecstasy, her eyes so dark that I could not tell the difference between the pupils and the irises. . . .

Brigitte had moved to the window. She stood there, staring out, one hand propped on her hip. Smiling, I reached for my sweater and pulled it over the old torn shirt I always wore for dance class.

"I won't be long," I said.

Outside, the weather was beautiful. Though May was still two weeks away, the sun felt warm against my back as I walked off down the street. I saw a man cycle over a bridge, singing loudly to himself, as people often do in Amsterdam, the tails of his pale linen jacket flapping. There was a look of anticipation on his face -- anticipation of summer, and the heat that was to come. . . .

I had been living with Brigitte for seven years. We rented the top two floors of a house on Egelantiersgracht, one of the prettier, less well-known canals. We had skylights, exotic plants, a tank of fish; we had a south-facing terrace where we would eat breakfast in the summer. Since we were both members of the same company, we saw each other twenty-four hours a day; in fact, in all the time that we had lived together, I don't suppose we had spent more than three or four nights apart. As dancers, we had had a good deal of success. We had performed all over the world -- in Osaka, in São Paulo, in Tel Aviv. The public loved us. So did the critics. I was also beginning to be acclaimed for my choreography (I had created three short ballets for the company, the most recent of which had won an international prize). At the age of twenty-nine, I had every reason to feel blessed. There was nothing about my life I would have changed, not if you had offered me riches beyond my wildest imaginings -- though, as I walked to the shop that afternoon, I do remember wishing that Brigitte would give up smoking. . . .

I followed my usual route. After crossing the bridge, I turned left along the street that bordered the canal. I walked a short distance, then I took a right turn, into the shadows of a narrow alley. The air down there smelled of damp plaster, stagnant water, and the brick walls of the houses were grouted with an ancient, lime-green moss. I passed the watchmaker's where a cat lay sleeping in the window, its front paws flexing luxuriously, its fur as grey as smoke or lead. I passed a shop that sold oriental vases and lamps with shades of coloured glass and bronze statues of half-naked girls. Like the man on the bicycle, I had music in my head: it was a composition by Juan Martin, which I was hoping to use in my next ballet. . . .

Halfway down the alley, at the point where it curved slightly to the left, I stopped and looked up. Just there, the buildings were five storeys high, and seemed to lean towards each other, all but shutting out the light.

The sky had shrunk to a thin ribbon of blue.

As I brought my eyes back down, I saw them, three figures dressed in hoods and cloaks, like part of a dream that had become detached, somehow, and floated free, into the day. The sight did not surprise me. In fact, I might even have laughed. I suppose I thought they were on their way to a fancy-dress party -- or else they were street-theatre people, perhaps. . . .
Whatever the truth was, they didn't seem particularly out of place in the alley. No, what surprised me, if anything, was the fact that they recognised me. They knew my name. They told me they had seen me dance. Yes, many times. I was wonderful, they said. One of the women clapped her hands together in delight at the coincidence. Another took me by the arm, the better to convey her enthusiasm.

While they were clustered round me, asking questions, I felt a sharp pain in the back of my right hand. Looking down, I caught a glimpse of a needle leaving one of my veins, a needle against the darkness of a cloak. I heard myself ask the women what they were doing -- What are you doing? -- only to drift away, fall backwards, while the black steeples of their hoods remained above me, and my words too, written on the sky, that narrow strip of blue, like a message trailed behind a plane. . . .

It is only five minutes' walk from the studio to the shop that sells newspapers and cigarettes. I ought to have been there and back in a quarter of an hour. But half an hour passed, then forty-five minutes, and still there was no sign of me.

I had last seen Brigitte standing at the canteen window, one hand propped on her hip. How long, I wonder, did she stay like that? And what went through her mind as she stood there, staring down into the street? Did she think our little argument had upset me? Did she think I was punishing her?

I imagine she must have turned away eventually, reaching up with both hands to re-tie the scrap of velvet that held her hair back from her face. Probably she would have muttered something to herself in French. Faít chier. Merde. She would still have been longing for that cigarette, of course. All her nerve-ends jangling.

Maybe, in the end, she asked Fernanda for a Marlboro Light and smoked it by the pay-phone in the corridor outside the studio.

I doubt she danced too well that afternoon.

That night, when I did not come home, Brigitte rang several of my friends. She rang my parents too, in England. No one knew anything. No one could help. Two days later, a leading Dutch newspaper published an article containing a brief history of my career and a small portrait photograph. It wasn't front-page news. After all, there was no real story as yet. I was a dancer and a choreographer, and I had gone missing. That was it. Various people at the company came up with various different theories -- a nervous breakdown of some kind, personal problems -- but none of them involved foul play. My parents offered a reward for any information that might throw light on my whereabouts. Nobody came forward.

All this I found out later.

There was a point at which Brigitte began to resent me for putting her in such a difficult position. She found it humiliating, not knowing where I was; I was making her look ridiculous. It must have been then that it occurred to her that I might have left her -- for another woman, presumably. How cowardly of me to say nothing. How cowardly, to just go. Brigitte was half French, half Portuguese, and her pride had always resembled a kind of anger. There was nothing constant or steady about it. No, it flared like a struck match. When she was interviewed by the police she told them that I had abandoned her, betrayed her. She couldn't produce any evidence to support her theory, nor could she point to any precedent (in our many years together I had never once been unfaithful to her), yet the police took her seriously. A woman's intuition, after all. What's more, she lived with me. She was supposed to know me best. So if that was what she thought. . . . The police did not send out any search parties for me. They did not scour the countryside with tracker dogs or drag the city's waterways. They did not even put up Missing Person posters. Why would they? I was just a man having an affair.

This, too, I found out later.

One other thing. The last person to see me before I disappeared was not Brigitte, but Stefan Elmers. Stefan was a freelance stills photographer who worked for the company. He took pictures of us dancing, black-and-white pictures that were used in programmes and publicity. Both Brigitte and I counted Stefan as a friend.

As I was walking along the canal that afternoon -- and this could only have been moments before I turned into the alley -- Stefan happened to drive past me in his car. Usually he would have stopped and talked to me, or else he would have shouted out of the window, something cheeky, knowing Stefan, but there was another car behind him, right behind him, so he just kept going.

Apparently, I looked happy.

For the next eighteen days no one had the slightest idea where I was.

From the Trade Paperback edition.

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Reading Group Guide

1. The novel begins and ends with first person narration. Why do you think Thomson chooses to tell the story of the protagonist's imprisonment and sexual abuse in the third person? Did you find this narrative shift disorienting? How does this shift affect the emotional texture of the events that take place in the white room? How would these scenes be different if told from a first person, "I" perspective?

2. Thomson's story hinges on a startling reversal of roles, with women assuming the positions of power and reducing the male to an object for their sadistic pleasure. How did you react to this reversal? Did you find it believable? Disturbing? Why do you think Thomson cast his novel in this way?

3. The plot of The Book of Revelation takes off from an old joke: "He went out to get a pack of cigarettes and. . . ." When the narrator does not return, his girlfriend simply assumes that he's left her for another woman, even though he'd always been faithful. What might Thomson be saying about the real stories that lie beneath the conventional ones with which we try to explain the unexplainable?

4. When the narrator asks his captors why they have kidnapped him, one of them responds, "Because you're beautiful. . . . Because we love you" [p. 35]. Is this a serious or mocking response? What do you think their real motives are? Do you think the narrator is right in suggesting that they are acting out their own sexual abuse and taking revenge for the damage that had once been done to them? What can be inferred about the nature of that damage from their behavior towards the narrator? Why does Thomson keep their motivations concealed?

5. Towards the end of his captivity, the narrator reaches a point at which he feels "his fate was no more or less than he deserved. There was nothing random or accidental about what had happened to him. There was nothing unlucky about it" [pp. 90-91]. Why does the narrator see his situation in this way at this point in his captivity? Does this interpretation reveal anything about his character?

6. At one point, the narrator realizes the white room he's held captive in is a "kind of stage" and that he was being "asked to sustain a performance with no knowledge of how long it was supposed to last" [p. 47]. In what ways are the torments he suffers tailored specifically to the fact that he is a dancer? What kinds of performances is he forced to give? How does he try to gain some power over his captors?

7. Once he's free, why doesn't the narrator report his abduction to the police or try harder to convince Brigitte that his story is true? Why doesn't he tell anyone else what happened to him? Does his passivity seem psychologically accurate?

8. After he is released, the narrator's mind fills with "images from the room—the black steeples of the women's hoods, their cloaks swirling around me like unconsciousness itself. . . ." [p. 115]. Earlier, we're told that "when they moved toward him, passing through the sunlight, it was an eerie moment, almost supernatural, like watching ghosts walk through a wall. He felt as though the fabric of the world had been tampered with, which only added to his suspicion that the women were beyond all natural law" [p. 72]. What symbolic value do the women have? To what extent do you think they are projections of the narrator's subconscious? Does this indicate that Thomson wants readers to question whether the women—and therefore the narrator's experiences with them—are real?

9. In trying to find his abductors, the narrator has sex with 162 women in fourteen months. In what ways does he perpetuate the cycle of abuse, even while he is trying to free himself from it? How has he become like the women he is searching for? Is he right when he thinks, "Like vampires, they had turned me into another version of themselves" [p. 199]?

10. One of the women the narrator sleeps with tells him that she was abused by her father but that no one had ever believed her. It suddenly occurs to him that "there were others like me, people who were operating in a fourth dimension, a world that was parallel to this one, a kind of purgatory" [p. 186]. Why does he say that people who've been abused inhabit a "fourth dimension"? Why is it a kind of purgatory? In what ways does the narrator operate in a world that is parallel to but severed from the "real" world?

11. After he is released, the narrator spends three years traveling. What is he trying to achieve by staying in constant motion?

12. Why is the narrator attracted to the story Isabel tells him of Norwegian explorer William Barentz who was stranded on the polar island of Nora Zemba? What does the narrator's intention to create a dance about that story reveal about how art is made? About the way artists use existing stories to tell their own? About the relationship between a historical incident and personal history in a work of art?

13. When the narrator first sleeps with Juliette, he thinks, "In the darkness, naked, she looked so black. Like something I could disappear into" [p. 222]. Where else in the novel does he express this wish to disappear, hide, or dissolve? Why is this such a powerful feeling for him? Why is he so drawn to Juliette? Why does he trust and feel safe with her?

14. The Book of Revelation ends just as the narrator is about to tell his story--the story we have just finished reading—to detective Olsen, who asks him to "go back to the beginning" [p. 260]. Why do you think Thomson has given his narrative this circular form? What is the importance of the narrator finally being able to tell his story? What do think Olsen's response will be? What do you imagine will happen to the narrator from this point on?

15. The novel is preceded by an epigraph from Stefan Hertman: "Will there ever be anything other than the exterior and speculation in store for us? The skin, the surface—it is man's deepest secret." How would you relate this idea to the title of the novel, The Book of Revelation? What connections do you find between the novel and the biblical book of Revelation? How does the novel dramatize the problems of revealing and concealing? How is the narrator's life affected by these opposites? What is concealed from him? What does he conceal and reveal? What does the novel seem to imply about the limits of knowing?

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Sort by: Showing all of 6 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted February 18, 2005

    The Book of Revelations

    I thought the book was brilliant. I¿ve read several reviews of the book saying they were disappointed with the second half of the book, specifically the ending and his inability to ¿get on with his life¿ after the abduction and subsequent abuse ¿ but to me the ending was the entire point of the book. Yes the beginning (the 18 days imprisoned) was enthralling reading, but to me the book was about the dissociation from life resulting from abuse, using the somewhat taboo subject of male sexual abuse by women. But what makes the book for me is at the end, when he starts to explain his actions to a policeman friend of his who suspects that he has a story to tell ¿ the ultimate line ¿you¿ve started from the middle, go back to the beginning¿. In a way it¿s telling you to start the book again, almost as if the book is a transcript of his conversation with the policeman (hense the name of the book), but in another way it¿s also saying maybe go back to the very beginning and look at the motives of the women who kidnapped and abused him, they would have had stories to tell, were their actions a result of abuse they themselves had experienced in the same way his abusive actions to women at the end of the book were as a result of theirs.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 30, 2004


    The premise was great. The execution was shoddy. The main character is brutally tortured and humiliated, yet does nothing to his unarmed captors when he has a chance? And THIRTY people watched as he danced nude with a lock on his penis? Very unbelievable.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 11, 2001


    The beginning was captivating, but the book becomes increasingly irritating. The main character makes no real attempts to recover from his kidnapping and, subsequently, the book just continues to frustrate the reader. I kept reading for the hope that something - anything - would happen, but it didn't, which may be what the author wanted. In any case, the book was mediocre and the ending was worthless.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 7, 2001

    a tour de force

    Rupert Thomson (1955) is one of my favourite authors. His latest sixth novel, `The Book of Revelation¿, is a compelling story, and once you start reading it, it¿s difficult to put the book down. A nameless 30-year old english dancer/choreographer lives and works in Amsterdam. He has a succesful career and for some years he¿s been living happily with his nice girlfriend Brigitte, also a dancer. In his life there are no real troubles, until... everything changes forever. He¿s abducted in Amsterdam by three cloaked and hooded women, who hold him captive and chained naked to the floor of an anonymous white empty room for eighteen days. For no apparent reason. During his captivity the only option there for him is total submission. The young women, presumably of his own age, appear often naked -though always hooded- to him. They have their way and play all kinds of games with him, mostly for their sexual pleasure. When the women¿s demands become more fierce, total dehumanisation and humiliation follows. The man is defenseless against this depraved performance of power, domination and desire. The ordeal he¿s subjected to includes rape and even brutal mutilation. For the reader this is a shocking nightmare as well. The captivity-part of the book reminded me of Pascal Bruckner's bizarre and weird, but brilliant novel 'les voleurs de beauté' (1997), and of two films where a similar sort of events takes place: Pasolini¿s `Salo: the 120 days of Sodom¿ (1975) and Michael Haneke¿s `Funny Games¿ (1998). What happens there is that you¿re forced to witness extreme atrocities, while you know there will be no escape from these brutal violations of human dignity. And of course, as a `witness¿, it makes you sick, you feel horrible. It¿s the same with Thomson¿s `Book of revelation¿, with one big difference, ... a relief. The man regains his freedom. After eighteen days the women all of a sudden decide to release him. The book is really about what follows then. Of course, after his release he¿s not really free. He will carry the horrible events he endured in captivity for the rest of his life, probably without ever knowing the identity of his torturers. In a brilliant way Thomson manages to describe the psychological process that accompanies the quest that now lies ahead of this deeply wounded man. His life-after looks like an endless re-evaluation. How to live with yourself, with these scars, how to deal with your sexuality, with the people around you, and how to put your life in some sort of right track again... Facing all these problems the man begins a search for the women who made a ruin of his life. A search that will also bring his innermost self to the fore, in a way he never could have imagined. The outline and structure of the novel is well balanced, and the shifting of perspective, using the first person (`I¿-form) and third person (`he¿-form) alternately in different sections of the novel, works fine and efficient. One of Thomson¿s best writing skills throughout his work is the use of analogies. In `The Book of Revelation¿ display of that skill may not be as abundant as in `The five gates of hell¿ and `The insult¿ -his most mesmerizing and intoxicating novels- but the outline and the psychological development of the main character is as good as ever. And, what¿s more, in `The Book of Revelation¿ Thomson reveals a deep wisdom to everyone of us about the essences of life, concerning relationships, sexuality, human dignity and freedom. A remarkable achievement, and taking into account the difficult subject Thomson is dealing with here, I consider `The Book of Revelation¿ a succesful `tour de force¿. In an oeuvre that¿s far from complete I hope.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 9, 2000

    What a revelation!

    This book was an insight to the very core of a fantasy many males have often dreamed of but as a reality is actually quite daunting. The autor has the tenseness and thrill of any good book but what makes it exceptional is the originalality. I really enjoyed this book and would recommend it to anyone who has ever wondered what happens when fantasy becomes reality.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 23, 2000

    Book of Revelation a Little Too Revealing

    Imagine that you have the perfect life: a lover who loves you no matter what, a job that is your true talent and a life that could not possibly contain a flaw. One day you walk outside your spacious apartment into the cool outside and you are kidnapped and taken sexual prisoner by three robed figures of the opposite sex. This scenario sounds wonderful, right, and completely ludicrous. Those were exactly my feelings on the novel by Rupert Thomson, entitled 'The Book of Revelation,' not to be confused with the other book, 'The Book of Revelations.' They do not even begin to compare, except that the nameless main character of this novel undergoes many self-revelations throughout this incredibly odd story. The main character remains nameless throughout the entire story, something that I find incredibly hard to identify with. He is strangely two dimensional, although the author tries his hardest to makes him have feelings and in-depth thought about what is happening around him. It starts off as the above says, with the young man living the perfect life with his beloved girlfriend and a job as a dancer and choreographer in Amsterdam. Everything is perfect in his life, or so it seems. It takes an extremely bizarre incident to realize what is really missing in his life. Another thing that must be noted about this novel is that the story seems to be written in three parts, or possibly by three different people because each main part of the book-his being taken prisoner, his travels and soul searching and his life after his return-varies so much from the others. That is just one more thing that makes this book very inconsistent. All of the first section is incredibly shocking, perverted and yet gruesomely entertaining. It shows the creative side of the author's mind, as the second part of the book remains questionable. The second part of the novel is not even worth mentioning as he is aimlessly wandering around, trying to 'search for himself' and what has been done to him. This section is so random that it makes no sense. Basically, he wastes part of his life because he gets nothing out of his travels. There was a basic lack of common sense on his part, or maybe the author's to leave this out of the story. The kidnapping screwed up his entire life; it meant so much to him, yet he made no effort to tell anyone about it. The ending is very disappointing; you want to scream at him to stop looking and move on wit

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