There are certain types of fiction that I just can’t stomach.
I still remember the night after I’d read Kiss the Girls by James Patterson.
For the uninitiated, the book’s about these two killers who call themselves ‘Casanova’ and ‘The Gentleman Caller’ and the hero, Alex Cross, who must stop them. The sickos compete with each other to see how many women they can kidnap and kill! And, to top it off, the Gentleman Caller has a fetish for storing parts of his victim that he especially liked in a freezer in his home. Casanova, however, just likes to store his women in his basement–alive–although I’m not sure if that’s better or worse.
So one of the opening sequences in the book starts with how Casanova hides in his first victim’s house–in her air conditioner vents, or something. This hit home pretty hard for me, cause at the time, I was in a house with the same type of vents.
I mean, there I was, thirteen years old, and scared. OUT of my mind, teeth chattering scared. I remember it extremely well, cause I spent the entire night in a state of ‘constant vigilance!’– just waiting for some guy to come creeping out from somewhere. It was not a pleasant experience, to say the least.
So that was the night I decided, no way Jose to any more of those ‘inside-a-killer’s-mind’ books. I mean, why go ‘Aa bel, mujhe maar’ ?
In the same vein, I hate hate hate hate movies like ‘Sweet November’ and ‘Here on Earth’. Amul should know this :)
I could name more, but you know what I mean–where the couple is all diabetically sweet and fluffly, and suddenly, death looms over them. Usually in the form of the woman dying of cancer.
Bad enough that almost every single movie in this genre has the woman dying–the only one I can remember that had it in reverse is ‘Dying Young’–but I don’t get why anyone likes these sort of films! They always leave me so bloody depressed.
Or maybe I’m just too sensitive?
Yeah, you all can stop laughing now.