Alison Rumfitt

People who like to describe things as "elevated horror" talk a lot about the difference between horror and terror. You know, "the difference between awful apprehension and sickening realization: between the smell of death and stumbling against a corpse," as they say (or, ok, as Devendra Varma said, according to the "Horror and Terror" Wikipedia page...). What people often fail to mention is that a lot of so-called horror media is not really about horror, or about terror, but about disgust. show more More ick than eek. No more frightening than spoiled milk, no less upsetting.

Folks, this is prime example of what I'm talking about. Brainwyrms is gross. Brainwyrms is disgusting. Brainwyrms should not be read in times and places where it would be inappropriate to become violently ill. Very icky. Whatever the opposite of elevated is. Neither the smell of death nor the stumbled upon corpse but the maggots and piles of vomit left behind for the crime scene clean-up crew. I often asked myself, why am I reading this? why am I doing this to myself? It is the stinkingest turd of a novel I have ever read.

Not that there's anything wrong with that, as they say! And as turds go, this one was pretty polished. Rumfitt does a really fine job here of crafting a compelling narrative that neither under nor overplays its (unwashed) hand. The characters are well-formed, distinct, plausibly motivated to behave as they do. And the more straight-forward horror elements lurk persistently in the background, waiting patiently to be born. It has none of the flaws of Rumfitt's first novel, Tell Me I'm Worthless (which I found to be poorly structured, derivative, philosophically confused, etc.), or of Eric LaRocca's similarly premised Things Have Gotten Worse Since We Last Spoke (which was rushed, pointless, unbelievable, etc.). I doubt I will recommend it to anyone -- I try to avoid rendering my friends and loved ones nauseous -- nor can I say honestly that I enjoyed it. But if you're looking to have a bad time reading a good book: this is for you.

P.S. Thanks NetGalley! This book should come with an anti-emetic! show less

Antifascist purgation? Queercore catharsis? Parasocial trauma bonding?

Alison Rumfitt is a ruthless, and desperately needed, voice in our current wave of liberation struggle. Not since Susan Stryker's "My Words to Victor Frankenstein Above the Village of Chamounix" have I been so thoroughly ravaged by a, devastatingly generous, offering of love and rage.

This book is a brutal blessing for the tormented — truly some unrepentant nourishment for an exasperated soul.

this book is a swift read which i always appreciate. it's also a very blunt one, which is certainly intended, but at times i think the bluntness is too much; the fascistic influence at the heart of the haunting is shoved quite directly in your face. you only really need to say something directly once, but this book says it over and over again.

i imagine more people recoil from the violence the protagonists do to each other in this book, but i really didn't have a problem with the fact of show more it—their brutality towards each other is an effective representation of the core theme. it was just portrayed, as i said, extremely bluntly and inelegantly. if this book had had been more insidious in execution i think it would have been more effective show less

Absolutely stunning work. Carnal and quite a fever dream that I just couldn't step away from. I will gladly devour anything this author puts out in the future. It's self discovery, its hating yourself, trauma that reaches into your core and literally claws its way out into the real world and manifests in tangible horrifying grotesque ways. I loved the scope of fascism, anxiety, being trans, being in love, being haunted...it's a wild ride that says SO much.