https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07GLXGC4...C905uzzery6hoWAy3ZWJVGY1aa3Q5XO5Xa5KuYytxOHVA
I'm glad we seem to be captivating the minds of foids in popular culture. Or is this publicity bad for us? What do you think?
A novel about the plight of incels? Well, that's certainly encouraging, isn't it? Has someone taken upon themselves to imagine what it would be to be so ugly as to be unlovable in a way that is incomprehensible to the vast majority? Has someone taken those moments of isolation that everyone experiences occasionally and dared wonder what it would be like if those moments were stretched from the first breath taken in the cradle to the very last one surrendered upon the deathbed? There are precedents for such a thing, after all. Shelley penned her tale of a monster who, through no fault of its own, was poorly fashioned by its overly ambitious creator and abandoned when its "father" found the fruit of his fevered labor repulsive. And the Rolling Stones urged their audience for some sympathy for the devil, most hated of God, because the demon was precisely what God, with His infinite power informed by His inscrutable wisdom, declared it to be long before creation was spoken into being. Could it be some modern voice took the time and, with both bravery and sensitivity, harrowed the world the unloved are relegated to and returned with some new tragedy to share with the world? Has she endured the shaman's journey and gone down into the darkness, returning with the ability to see the world through a monster's eyes?
Of course not. Instead we have pulpy dime-store trash penned by a woman whose imagination is so barren that she has to resort to media frenzy to provide her with villains to populate her lurid little fantasy. She lacks the fortitude to play Dante and descend down into the deepest pits of Cocytus to find a proper devil and contents herself and the ten people comprising her audience with a Halloween costume shop version of the damned; replete with rubber horns and plastic pitchfork. The horror of Dante's Lucifer was profound precisely because it was weeping and frozen fast by its own tears, because its damnation was an expression of the greatest misery: the fate of something that is completely and utterly beyond the warm Light of Creation and any hope of redemption.
Suffice to say this woman is no Dante; the closest she's come to evil either natural or moral are the tawdry little crime dramas she's attempting to emulate. The agony of an Ed Gein struggling to come to terms with the wickedness of sexuality when its joys are forever denied him are beyond her comprehension, so she takes a cue from Tobe Hooper and manufactures a legion of gibbering idiots with nothing but blood and murder on their minds. Our author presents us a faceless malevolent force: the "incels", no different from an army of undead ghouls who hunger for just a fleck of blood to grace their desiccated tongues long or a hint of warmth upon their flesh long after their veins have gone dry and their rotting skin grown cold.
The thing of it is, I can't really fault her for her narrative. I resent it, of course, with more vehement hatred than my poor words could ever hope to express. But when addressing the incels, is there any other story she could have possibly written? She is no doubt loved and so has no conception of what it is to be despised simply because one was unfortunate enough to have been born repulsive. The affection she doubtlessly receives is an expression of the proper order of things insofar as she's aware and concerned. And, well, perhaps she's correct. I have no more insight into her world than she does into mine. I've seen many things down here in my private little Gehenna, but an angel's sympathetic face has never been one of them.
Which is why, when all is said and done, every treatment of us will be exactly like this woman's. Sure, there may be some petty distinctions but never forget, my fellow devils, no love spell ever penetrates deeper than the skin. Viewing us from afar, taking note of our twisted limbs and grotesque faces, they'll shudder with all the visceral fear the living reserve for the dead and the beloved of God do for the damned. Not a single one of them will approach close enough to hear our wails or see our tears. And if it just so happened one was careless enough to find herself in the position to do so she would stop her ears, shut her eyes and run screaming up from the pits of Hell she wandered into, telling everyone and anyone willing to listen that the abominations she left behind are precisely where they deserve to be.
