I started reading this book almost a year ago. I knew there was a reason why I had put it down, and I remembered that it had something to do with the subject-matter, but remembering that the prose had been well-crafted, I recently pulled it off my shelf again. At first it was almost enthralling, despite having forgotten the beginning which I did not bother to re-read. But soon after falling into its prose, adept at conveying the nature of obsession in all its simple horror, I realized that it was beginning to work as a spell and it was pulling me into its web. I wanted to extricate myself from the story, to cleanse my mind of the events that were beginning to weigh heavy somewhere inside myself.
It must not be easy to write any tale of obsession, particularly on penned as memoir, and more particularly, one detailing a story of incest. But neither is a story of this kind easy to read. It slowly seeps into the mind, almost tar-like. Upon reaching the halfway point in the story, I began to feel unclean. I craved to clean my mind of the darkness in this story, of the possibility that this happens, as I know it does. Instead, I set the small, carefully bound book down, in a refusal to continue. But now, after reading as much as I did, I can't take the story out of myself. Stories are like this.
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