dorothy then goes on a victim tirade of how brutally women are treated in the justice system and how brutal everyone is to her. emma, being a weirdo just like dorothy, allows dorothy to assault her (almost) and get away with it. This is the fake memoir of popular food critic Dorothy Daniels - she adores food, adores sex - oh and she happens to be a serial killer who eats parts of her victims! unfortunately, the novel never truly explores or shows this, in spite of being structured to do so. it is, once again, crippled by the inadequacies of the prose. One mark of psychopaths, or so I’ve learned, is that we calculate an action’s personal benefits before we take it, and it benefits me to proclaim my psychopathy, both in prison and out of it. Here at Bedford Hills, my psychopathy earns me a wide berth. There in the world, my psychopathy sells better than sex—and sex plus psychopathy, well, that’s a heady delight.

I would have still been satisfied with this book; only if there had been a point to everything that happens. I mean, even at the end, we never get to know the WHY - and that’s just wrong 😭 for these reasons, i unshelved it as lit fic halfway through - try as it might, this is more general-fiction-beach-read than it likes to admit.

A Certain Hunger

Shaw-Ellis, Daisy; Weir, Keziah (December 2, 2020). "The Books and Totes That Will Get You Through This Winter". Vanity Fair . Retrieved 2020-12-02. As I say, there’s no reason an over-the-top sexploitation style story should be so thoughtfully rendered, but thank goodness it is. Silverberg notes too that A Certain Hunger is "also a history of the internet, and how it has democratized writing and ‘steamrolled the playing field’ of criticism broadly." [4] Style [ edit ]

this is the most white feminist book i've ever read. it was racist, grotesque, classist, antisemitic, and added nothing to any of the conversations it was desperately trying to grab onto. here's how dorothy got caught, by the way: the supposedly intelligent psychopath threw away a receipt near the crime scene and forgot that trash cans don't magically melt when near a fire, unless they themselves are on fire. yet again, either a plothole or another showing of her stupidity, though i don't know which one makes me want to scream more. To this, I laughed. I know what I am. It may not appear in the DSM-5, but just because you can’t prescribe a pill for us doesn’t mean we don’t exist.my final thoughts are this: i bought this book because i liked the cover. i adore things that look like alexandre cabanel's work. reading what it was about before i bought it, however, led me to know that i was going to be let down. i did not expect this book to be good. Ugh, this book. Murderous, cannibalistic cougar food critic got my attention, but it was like the author stopped at that idea herself and never went further. Apparently this was meant to be a sort of “Hey, women can be evil, too” treatise, but instead of developing that idea we get chapter after chapter of our psychopathic narrator detailing all the food and sex she has, and the endless murders and consumption of her lovers. this is particularly egregious when it comes to the descriptions and discussion of cannibalism. i wouldn't have minded a casual tone from a psychopath, i would not expect anything else from commercial fiction. but this sanitised writing style somehow strips an inherently transgressive act off of its transgressiveness.